


time to kill

by lesbianjackrackham, Sarah1281



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Attempted Murder, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, alana maxwell deserves better, daniel jacobi is a goddamn mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-24 21:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13819767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianjackrackham/pseuds/lesbianjackrackham, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah1281/pseuds/Sarah1281
Summary: The FBI estimates that there are between 35-50 active serial killers in the United States at any given time. Daniel Jacobi meets one at a bar.(aka, the Kepcobi Serial Killer AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> one time i was musing about daniel jacobi's death wish and then @sarah1281 said "hey what if there was a kepcobi serial killer au" and i lost my fucking mind/soul
> 
> and then in the process of writing it, @sarah1281 slid over a chapter that now appears in it's entirety in this fic, and then I convinced her to write this thing with me because the fic was entirely her fault in the first place.
> 
> what i'm saying is, we share equal blame
> 
> special props to charlie aka @letteredheart aka @shortwaveattentionspan for betaing this monster. <3<3<3
> 
> now complete!

_Then_

Daniel Jacobi was very good at mathematics and nearly as good at drunken mathematics, which was twice as fun anyway.

The goal was the same every time he stepped foot in this bar or countless others like it. Drink until he dropped. Sometimes he even succeeded, but never quite as big of a drop as he would have liked.

He needed to be clever and he needed to be quick. He had yet to find a bartender willing to help him drink himself into a coma no matter how well he tipped, so the key was to find just the right combination of drinks taken at precisely the right intervals to get delightfully fucked up before anyone was the wiser.

It slowly occurred to him, somewhere between his third shot and his sixth, that there is a man sitting next to him. He sees the hands first. Big, powerful hands. Hands that could break him in two.

He laughed a little at that. Christ, he’s fucked up.

He could just imagine what Alana would say if she were here.

It’s fine to have these thoughts, Daniel. Thoughts are just thoughts and I’m sure they were very nice hands. But don’t you dare try to get him to test your little theory.

Well Alana wasn’t here, and he was becoming vaguely aware that those hands were attached to a crisp blue shirt that announced to the world that this guy was fucking built.

“Something funny, friend?” the man asked, his voice making Daniel swallow hard.

Daniel glanced at his face, the amused and slightly superior smirk and the piercing eyes.

If this man weren’t just a little bit gay then God was most definitely testing him.

“No, I just… never mind.”

It was stupid and he wouldn’t get it. He didn’t know Alana and most people were kind of weirded out knowing you thought about how many ways they could take you apart.

He unconsciously licked his lips.

The other man’s smirk widened. “I get it. I’m not nearly drunk enough to share the joke.”

Feeling suddenly emboldened, Daniel said, “You could be, you know. If you wanted to.”

Something flashed in the man’s eyes. “And I do most certainly want to.”

Daniel felt like he was missing something but quickly decided it didn’t matter as the stranger tilted his body a little closer to his own.

“What’s your name, friend?”

“Daniel.”

He was about to ask who this man was but was distracted by his next words.

“And what’re you drinking, Daniel?”

Daniel shivered pleasantly. Something about the way that man said his name sounded like gunpowder and bloodshed. The Alana in his head was rolling her eyes so hard it had to hurt. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to hear this man say it again.

“Daniel?” The man repeated.

‘I would follow you anywhere,’ Daniel didn’t say. He didn’t mean it, either. Only as far wherever they could both get good and fucked, anyway.

It took him a moment to realize he’d been asked a question. “Everything.”

“Everything,” the man said, laughing a little himself. “How about some whiskey then?”

Daniel’s unimpressed face was all the answer the man needed and he laughed again and waved over the bartender.

Dimly, Daniel remembered that whiskey was meant to be savored, not downed like a shot. And while he could honestly say he didn’t give a shit what the right way to drink was, this man looked like he might and the last thing he wanted to do was make an ass of himself in front of him. Not when the man was looking at him like that.

For a moment he felt a twinge of something somewhere between abject terror and sheer delight as he clinked his glass with the stranger’s. He forced himself to drink it down slowly.

“So what are you doing drinking alone tonight?” The man asked.

“What are you doing?” he countered.

The man shrugged. “I’m just passing through town. On a business trip, you see. In my line of work if you can’t drink alone you can’t drink at all and it’s a damn sight more entertaining to do your drinking in a bar like this. Besides,” and his tone was definitely flirtatious now, “you just might meet someone special.”

Daniel felt his breathing grow shallow and he discretely adjusted his pants. “My, uh, story’s much more basic than that, I’m afraid. My friend’s nearly as big of a drinker as I am. I wanted to go out and she didn’t so I went out. And she didn’t.”

To be fair to Alana, she was on the opposite side of the country. But he didn’t need to tell the man that he had only one friend, and even when they were together, it hurt to watch her hurt because he was feeling stupid things and couldn’t seem to find a way to crawl out of his own skin.

“Couldn’t bring another friend out here? A boyfriend perhaps?” The man asked suggestively.

Daniel laughed. “Fuck, am I that obvious?”

“Maybe I’m just that interested,” came the smooth reply.

Daniel shook his head. “No, nothing like that. There was a while ago but apparently I am going to get my fool self killed one day and he has no intention of staying and watching that happen.”

“I see,” the man said neutrally. “I know it might be a long shot because bars aren’t always happy fun family times but…”

Daniel laughed so hard he thought it might have stopped being laughter at some point. “Yeah, no. Nothing like that.”

The man eyed him slowly, up and down.

Daniel had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable. He had never desired another human being this much in his life.

“Say,” the man said slowly after a long while. “Did I ever tell you about the time my roommate tried to gaslight me into thinking I was a werewolf in order to get me to let him keep the apartment after we decided we didn’t want to live together anymore?”

Daniel blinked, tried to make sense of what this guy had just said, and then blinked again. “Uh… no. I just met you and I think I’d remember if you’d told me something like that.”

The man leaned in so close Daniel could smell him and damn was that not helping with his… situation. He slung his arm casually around Daniel’s shoulders.

“Would you like me to?”

Daniel’s answering smile was so wide it almost hurt, and that knowledge just made his smile grow wider.

\---

_Now_

She doesn’t mean for it to become a pattern.

And really, she doesn’t expect to get back into the prison, but Agent Minkowski doesn’t take her off his visitors list and neither does Kepler, so she’s able to pass through the metal detector with only half an interested look from a guard. The pat down is… uncomfortable, but the guard on duty apologizes and doesn’t grab at her, so there’s something to be said.

She’s only been here once before, with Agent Minkowski, who on the drive up mentions something about ‘closure.’ But instead of closure, she spends the entire visit looking at him—it’s the first time she has ever seen him in person. Minkowski makes it so Alana doesn’t need to testify at the trial. Part of her is grateful for it, to keep her and Daniel out of the story, but she doesn’t like being on the other side of this, seen as something to be guarded.

It might have something to do why she comes back, she thinks. But there’s no one here to tell her it’s a bad idea, and she’s the only one left to make the bad ideas.

Alana follows the same guard down to the last stall in a row of phones, and she passes by two other women, one crying and the other speaking softly and quickly to the man on the other side of the divider. There is no privacy between the visitors, and she hears the mutters of family updates. Your sister had her baby, and it’s a boy. He’s named Peter, after someone’s father. The radiant noise reminders her too much of a church service.

“You have thirty minutes,” the guard says, and walks back the way they came.

Alana sits down on the flat metal stool and places her hands on the counter and studies the scratches in the plastic until Warren Kepler sits across from her

He’s smiling when he picks up the phone, and when she puts hers to her ear he says, “Dr. Maxwell, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

He’s thinner than she remembers, and apparently he’s gone back to shaving his face. Alana doesn’t acknowledge him, just lets the moment stretch as she studies him. Kepler isn’t sleeping either, if the dark bags under his eyes are any indication. Still, he has this crinkle in his eyes like he’s actually happy she’s here.

When she finally opens her mouth to say something, Kepler interjects.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I went to Tacoma? This was years back, and I was driving through the mountains in an unairconditioned baby blue Chrysler…”

Alana listens. She listens for nearly twenty minutes, until Kepler says “long story short? That’s how I saved the goat farm with only a pack of pens and a box of Junior Mints.”

A buzzer sounds, and a guard walks up to collect Kepler. He winks at her as he stands and lets himself be led out of the visitor room.

Alana follows the other women out. Some of them still weeping and others are patting at their eyes. After collecting her bag, she looks over and spots a pamphlet denoting regular visiting hours.

Well.

She ends up back there a week later, at the Tuesday morning visit. It takes her nearly three hours to drive there, after fighting DC morning traffic. There are many reasons Alana works out of her house, and not commuting is one of them. Still, she finds herself driving deep into Virginia for the second time that month, wondering if there’s a better route for the next visit.

It’s not a popular visiting hour, thankfully, only her and a few other determined women. She’s not sure how she feels to be counted among them, to sign her name below theirs and to sit nervously in the waiting room before they’re called through security. They’re all here to see a loved one. Alana is here to see the person who murdered her loved one.

Kepler doesn’t seem surprised to see her again, and she hates him for it, the smug look of satisfaction, and once again he starts speaking before she can say anything, into a long winded story about working in a Formula 1 pit crew. She doesn’t focus on the details, spends the time watching him and trying to collect her own thoughts.

The thing is, she has absolutely no idea why she’s here.

That’s a lie— she has some idea. But it’s an incomplete thought, not one she wants to venture out loud. Especially not to Kepler. Or the Federal prison system, that’s certainly recording all of their conversations.

So instead she listens, and when Kepler is finished speaking she watches him leave.

And when she gets home, she starts to hack into the Federal Prison system.

\---

_Then_

The man from the bar led him with a warm hand around his hips into a car parked in an alley a few blocks down. Daniel kept trying to touch him back, but the man gently nudged his hands away and caught him as he stumbles. He’s drunk. God, he doesn’t want to be drunk for this.

He kept trying to touch him as they drive, Daniel’s hands darting across the man’s chest and up his thigh, until the man chuckled, “Do you want me to crash?”

“Kinda,” Daniel didn’t say, but when the man laughed again he thought he might have said it out loud anyway.

They parked in another alley, and after stumbling out of the car the man tugged Daniel towards a building with a bulldozer parked right outside. The place looked like it might collapse at any moment, and he vaguely spotted a pasted on sign that said ‘condemned.’

There’s a mattress in one corner of the room, but the man tugged him to the other side, where two cords of rope dangled down from an exposed pipe.

“What do I call you,” he asked, and leaned over to suck on the man's neck. Before he could bring his mouth down he was shoved away, and then the man punched him in the throat.

Daniel keeled over, wheezing, before he was dragged up by his hair as the man tied a complicated knot around his wrist with one rope. When he finished, Daniel’s nearly caught his breath and he handed him the other arm. The guy stared at him, and then started the process again.

“Seriously, what do I call you,” he said, and licked the man's bicep as the muscle moves past him.

“Daniel,” the man said, and Daniel shook his head. He was suspended an inch or so from the ground now, and if he stood on his toes he could keep the strain off of his wrist, but why would he want to?

“No, that’s my name. Wait, are you Daniel too? I’ve never actually hooked up with another Daniel before.”

“Shut... the fuck up,” the man said, and pulls out a ridiculously long knife.

“Oh fuck,” said Daniel, and closed his eyes as a shudder of pleasure rushes through his body. When he opened his eyes again, the man had stepped back into his space with the knife aimed at his chest. “Oh fuck,” he said again, and tried to swing himself forward.

The knife connected. Daniel winced as the blade sliced through his shirt, nicking his chest. The man wrapped an arm around Daniel’s waist to settle him and dragged the knife across the wound, opening it wider. Daniel cried out at the warm rush of blood dripping down his front and the man’s mouth, hot on his neck but not touching him. With his toes barely scraping the floor, he lurched forward and threw a leg around the man’s waist.

“What... the fuck... are you doing,” the guy said, as Daniel tugged him closer. He was still holding the knife against Daniel’s chest, and Daniel groaned, grinding against him.

“Oh fuck, come on, cut me again, shit—” Daniel said, and he wished he had his hands, wished he could get the man to do something besides fucking stand there.

“You’re— hard?”

“Shit yes, oh fuck—” He cried out, and then the man stepped away, leaving Daniel humping the air like a fucking teenager. “No wait, come back, fuck.”

“What the hell is wrong with you,” the guy said. “How many drugs are you on?”

“Just alcohol,” Daniel whined, “come on. What do you need? You can cut me. Come on.”

At that man grabbed him by the back of his head and pulled him in so the edge of his knife pressed right against Daniel’s throat, drawing blood as he growls, “I am going to cut your fucking throat.”

Daniel came in his pants.

There was a moment where neither of them moved; the man, holding Daniel tight against his knife, and Daniel, panting into it. The man’s eyes were wild and blown black, and Daniel licked his lips and scraped his neck against the blade, letting it catch on his skin. He held the man’s gaze, memorizing it. If this was the last thing he saw before he died, he was going to fucking savor it.

And then the man pulled the knife away, and let him go.

“Please,” Daniel whimpered, thrashing in his binds, “do it, come on—”

The man stepped out of view, and then Daniel felt a crack against his skull as he slipped, fitfully, into unconsciousness.

When he woke up, he was sitting on the floor of a bathroom he didn’t recognize, blinking up at the crappy fluorescents. It took him a moment to realize that the banging in his head was coming from the other side of the door. Daniel stumbled to standing, and fumbled to unlock the door. A man that he vaguely recognized frowned at him as he stepped past him, back into the bar.

It’s not the first time he had fallen asleep in a bar bathroom, and the guy said something about not turning tricks in the bathroom, which he wasn’t, not tonight, but Daniel touched his chest and brushed against the crackle of the plastic side of a bandage. He pressed down and felt the gauze underneath it, and the flutter of his heartbeat, sure and pulsing beneath his fingers.

\---

_Then_

When Alana pulls into her street, she notices the bright blue car sitting innocuously across the street with the woman sitting in it and staring at her. She chooses to ignore it and let whoever this was come to her with whatever it was they want.

She really isn’t in the mood to talk to anyone after having to wait in the exam room for an hour before her doctor came in to see her, so she was going to be putting literally zero effort into being at all helpful.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the woman get out of her car and start towards her. Alana keeps her pace exactly the same and shuts the door behind her as she enters the house.

Fifteen seconds later there are three hard knocks at the door and the doorbell rings. Alana takes off her shoes, hangs up her coat, and makes herself two pods of K-Cup coffee with cream and sugar before she deigns to open the door.

“Dr. Alana Maxwell?” The woman asks.

Alana nods.

“Great. I’m Isabel Lovelace, and I need your help. Can I come in?”

“Why not?” Alana asks. This is hardly the first time strangers have come to her seeking her skills though usually they come at night and not three in the afternoon.

Lovelace steps past Alana into the house and heads straight for the armchair in the next room.

“Or you can not wait for me,” Alana mutters. “That’s fine. Really. Not rude at all.”

If Lovelace hears that, she chooses not to acknowledge it. “If you’re not who I think you are, this is going to sound crazy.”

“That is my favorite way to start a story,” Alana says, sitting down on the sofa across from Lovelace and taking a sip of her coffee.

“Ten months ago I was drugged and kidnapped by a man who carved me up like a turkey,” Lovelace says. “I’m a cop so I can usually handle myself, but even though I swear I didn’t take my eyes off my drink, he must’ve slipped me something. The guy is good. I don’t know how long he had me but I woke up tied to a table. He didn’t start anything until he was sure I was conscious.”

“That’s fucked up.”

Lovelace laughs. “Oh, I know.”

“How’d you get away?”

“I didn’t,” Lovelace says darkly.

“Um,” Alana says, because clearly Lovelace has survived unless she is about to go all Sixth Senses on her and she _definitely_ isn’t in the mood for that.

“Well, obviously I survived,” Lovelace amends. “I’m not sure what happened. He cut me all over. Stabbed me in the neck and I think that was supposed to be the end of me. But he didn’t hit an artery or anything and there’s like, two in the neck so that’s kind of pathetic.”

“But he still stabbed you _in the neck_ ,” Alana says, staring at her.

Lovelace waves it off. “I was fine.”

“I really don’t believe that.”

Lovelace laughs again. “Well maybe ‘fine’ is overstating it. I was conscious and I took off my shirt - or what was left of it - and applied pressure to the wound. He didn’t think to pat me down, I guess, or at least not thoroughly enough because he didn’t find the burner phone I always have strapped to my leg. I’m lucky he didn’t stab me there, come to think of it. I called an ambulance and then the best fucking medical team ever saved my life. I won’t pretend the next few weeks weren’t hell, but I’m back and I’m looking for justice.”

“I thought you’d want revenge,” Alana says. “I know I would.”

Lovelace shrugs. “In this instance, those two look very similar. I want to find the bastard and let him know it was me and watch him rot for as many decades as he’s got left in him. Because a guy like that? He may have made a few mistakes that let me live, though I very much doubt that if I hadn’t had that phone I wouldn’t have bled out, but this wasn’t the first time he did that. A guy like that doesn’t stop.”

For one bright, beautiful moment Alana wants to tell her.

She has been agonizing for months about what it means to be a good friend to someone who is happily chasing his own death. What Daniel is doing right now isn’t impulsive. It isn’t a bad night and taking too many pills and if he just waits a few hours the urge will pass. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he doesn’t seem to regret a thing. She is helping him die, every day she leaves him with a serial killer and she can’t pretend otherwise.

He is an adult and it is what he wants but it is just so horrible.

Alana has resigned herself to his eventual premature death years ago but as every day passes and Kepler still keeps Daniel alive she has to ruthlessly tear down any hope she might be feeling. There is no other way this can end.

Except. Except here is a cop who gives off such an aura of confidence and, well, badassitude who is asking her to do something she knows she could do in time to save Daniel’s life.

They can still walk away from this. They can tell the world that Daniel is a victim dragged along due to some whim of Kepler’s and he can’t be held responsible for anything he does or at least he will have a much-reduced sentence and he will be alive and…

And then what?

Daniel trusts her with this. He had come to her and he had needed her and she had promised she would help him do this. What will realistically happen if she saves him from himself like this?

He’ll know it was her. She won’t be able to hide it. She won’t even be able to try. And he won’t thank her.

And maybe she should do it anyway. Maybe every other thing Lovelace has said about future victims is true. Maybe she doesn’t want to know if Daniel just waits in the car or is a witness or actually helps wield a knife.

But it all comes down to which you will regret more in the end, doesn’t it?

Warren Kepler is a monster who deserves to be brought to justice and one day, somehow, he will be.

But Alana doesn’t know how she can handle Daniel looking at her like she is just one more person he has counted on who lets him down. Doesn’t know how she will survive it if he treats her like one of them.

Lovelace is still waiting for a reaction.

“And you came to me… why, exactly?” Alana asks. “You’re a cop. I’m good with computers, but I’m sure you work with some decent people. I know some of them, actually, and they’re good at their jobs. So why me?”

“Because,” Lovelace says, looking intensely at her. “I’ve been looking into this since it happened, and information on the bastard isn’t easy to come by. But while I have no proof, I am as sure as I have ever been about anything that this asshole’s name is Warren Kepler.”

Alana stops breathing. She sips her coffee slowly, keeping her eyes on Lovelace and hiding her face in her cup until she feels like she is able to speak.

“I can do a lot with a name,” she says carefully. “But your people should be able to do the same.” Lovelace shakes her head.

“There’s nothing on that name, not in any databases I have access too. Or on any databases I’m not supposed to have access to. Except on a certain corner of the Internet. See, the thing is… I’m pretty good with computers too.”

“Officer Lovelace, I’m not sure I understand…”

“I think you know him.”

“Who?”

“Warren Kepler. And I think you know where he is.” Alana breathes a quick and silent sigh of relief that Daniel hasn’t called her yet this week.

“I can assure you, I don’t.” She hesitates, and then adds, “What makes you think that I would?”

Lovelace slides a few pieces of paper across the coffee table, which Alana briefly notes are screenshots of one of the fan sites she used to track down Kepler.

“I told you, I’m good with computers,” she says, smirking.

“I don’t know what this is.”

“You can stop lying now. This isn’t an official investigation, so there’s no reason not to tell the truth. See... what I’m most interested in is that third post.” Alana reads it. It is a comment thread trying to track down Kepler’s latest whereabouts, and she has mentioned that it is impossible to try and figure out where— “ _They_. Where _they_ are.” Oh.

Alana sets the paper down and picks up her coffee again.

“I still don’t understand…”

“Stop _lying to me_ ,” Lovelace hisses. “Kepler doesn’t have a partner. There is nothing to suggest he works with anyone else. And yet?” She gestures to the papers again.

“Officer Lovelace,” Alana says slowly, “do you know what I do for fun?”

“Hack into secure facilities and then sell the flaws on the dark web.”

“I run a podcast,” she says, laughing a little nervously. “It’s not very popular, but it is about true crime. I go to those sites for research. And, ugh— this is a little embarrassing, but I was hoping to put a fictional spin on next season? To drive up ratings? Like, ‘oh, reporter follows a serial killer around to get the whole story,’ kind of deal. But now looking at you, a real victim— I realize how insensitive that is.”

“You run a podcast,” Lovelace says flatly.

“I’m not surprised it didn’t come up in your… research of me. It’s under a pen name.”

“Dr. Maxwell…”

“This guy you’re calling Warren Kepler— from what I can tell, he’s an an amalgamation of a number of disappearances and deaths. And there’s so little on him— if all of the murders on the site could be connected back to him, of course, and not even the FBI is saying that, right? The only one connecting the dots that way is a handful of people on the internet.” Alana sets down her mug and looks Lovelace directly in the eye. “You know, Officer, I’m actually curious where you got that name from. Like you said, it’s not on the internet anywhere.”

“I think we’re done here,” says Lovelace, taking back the papers.

“I’m glad you agree,” says Alana. She walks Lovelace out the door, but the woman stops and handed her a business card.

“In case you think of anything.“ Alana shrugs, and closes the door after her. She watches Lovelace get in her car and drive away, and then spends the next few hours sweeping her home for bugs. Lovelace had only been there a few minutes, but she won’t put it past her. Her instincts are right, as after an hour of searching she finds one in the armchair, and another under the coffee table. Alana sends them both through the blender.

She keeps the officer’s card though. It might come in handy in the future.

\---

_Then_

Daniel wasn’t dead, and that was disappointing. Especially because he fucking hurt. There was a lump the size of his fist at the back of his skull, a thin scrape across his neck, and a chunk of skin missing from his chest. He couldn’t stop reopening the cut on his front, playing with the skin that was trying to scab over.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” said Alana, over video chat. Daniel couldn’t stop smiling

“He said that too.” Alana made a gagging noise, and Daniel laughed.

“Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to agree with the guy that almost murdered you.”

“Almost,” he emphasized.

“Jesus, Daniel.” He tugged the laptop closer, curling around it as he lay back on his bed.

“Alana. I know it’s—” Daniel closed his eyes and tapped the bandage under his shirt. “Whatever. I know it is. But it was. It was.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I need to find him.”

“No, Daniel.”

“I need to know who he is. I can’t stop thinking about him.” He knew he sounded desperate, and with the way Alana was specifically not looking at him now, he knew he must look it. “Alana, please. I can’t go to anyone else with this.” Finally, Alana looked over at him, and then bit her lip.

“Shit!” She muttered, and Daniel smiled.

“I love you.”

“Get fucked.”

“I’m trying.”

“Stop talking.” He closed his eyes as Alana typed, letting the sound of the keyboard lull him.

“Okay— here we go. Apparently there’s been some rumors of this a guy like this in your area. This is— wow. There are murderer fan sites? People are seriously sick. No offense.”

“Alana, you run a true crime podcast.”

“Yeah, for fun. Not for… whatever this is.” She continued clicking. “Okay— from your description, this guy is basically a cryptid. No discernible pattern. No clear description. No one is even sure how many people he’s killed—or who. There’s not actually a lot to go on here.”

“Oh,” said Daniel.

“Wait, here’s something— a lot of them are referencing this book: _Pryce and Carter’s Serial Killers’ Survival Procedure and Protocol Manual._ ”

“The what?”

“It’s a thing, apparently. It gives tips on how not to get caught, and then has a section on how to properly butcher a person, Hannibal Lecter style.”

“Gross.”

“I’m glad you have standards. The book is banned nearly everywhere, but—”

“You know someone?”

“Check your mailbox in a few days.”

“Thanks, Alana. Can you send me those links?”

“Sure. Okay, I’ll reach out to some people and see if I can get you anything more solid.”

“You’re the best.”

“Yeah. Just don’t be a moron, okay?”

“Uh huh.” Daniel blew her a kiss, shut down the video screen, and then clicked of the links Alana shared in the chat.

Like she said, there wasn’t much there. Nearly all of the forums had threads trying to decide on a name for him, stupid things with the words “Slasher” and “Striker.” But since, and again, this was all according to the websites, there was no official connection between any of the murders or disappearances, there was no official name.

A few hours later, Alana emailed him the book and a copy of _The Anarchist’s Cookbook_ , which he’s had memorized since he was seven. He sent her a bunch of kiss emojis, and she replied with a single prayer hands.

The book was fucking weird.

_Tip #8: Still waters run deep, but don’t forget to weigh down the body anyway._

_Tip #27: Fame is fleeting, and unrewarding. Unless you enjoy the electric chair._

_Tip #154: An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, so take both eyes at once to make it much harder for them to fight back._

There’s just over a thousand of those like them. Daniel read the book through twice, and even knowing that it served as a guide for actual serial killers, he couldn’t help but find it funny, in a morbid sort of way. Still, he found himself lingering on the practical end of the book, the one with diagrams and instructions on how to break down a human body, recommendations of tools, and how to hide in plain sight. How to find victims, and how to make sure no one finds them again.

The book seemed like something his guy would like. There was a reason no one knew about him, in any case.

He hoped he would be something his guy would like.


	2. Chapter 2

_Then_

There was nothing left to do after she led Minkowski and the others to Kepler. He’s in jail. He has been denied bail because no one in their right mind let a serial killer with no permanent address out of their sight for a second. There will be a trial in the coming weeks and months and while Alana intends to follow it obsessively and intercede if necessary, Minkowski promises she will do everything in her power to keep her from having to testify.

Alana honestly doesn’t know what she can say that will not be violating her Fifth Amendment right anyway.

She had done all she could but it isn’t enough. She doesn’t know if anything will ever be enough. She had thought this would help. It hasn’t.

At least this way that monster won’t be able to do to anyone else what he had done to Daniel, done to her. And that is great, it really is. But how the hell does that help her? It isn’t enough.

If she isn’t dreaming of Daniel laughing as he was killed in new and horrific ways then she is waking up forgetting for few precious moments that he is gone. Her text log for Daniel has eight unanswered messages in a row after the countless pleas she had sent for him to please call her, text her, anything.

She can’t stand to do nothing.

That is how she finds herself organizing a funeral.

There is no body, of course, but there is nothing she can do about that. Yet. It will likely come out in the trial or as some part of a plea deal. Maybe the people investigating will turn it up. And if not…well then that will give her purpose again. Find Daniel’s earthly remains and bring him home to her.

But she doesn’t know how long that will take and she has no intention of waiting forever to at least give him something. He wouldn’t have cared, she knows, but she also knows that he’d do twice as much for her. And then he’d probably grab a bottle of cheap whiskey and drink it on her grave and take a gun and…

Well, that isn’t her.

Alana hasn’t stepped foot in a church in years and it is as though little spiders were crawling up her arms and legs the entire time but she does it. For Daniel.

She tells the priest the story of Daniel, all the dark parts merely alluded to because what business is it of his, and she buys the gravesite. She commissions an artist to carve an image of him smiling as he sets off an explosion, ignoring all the whispers that earns her, and delivers a eulogy that she has revised seven times.

In Loving Memory

Daniel Kenneth Jacobi

Best of Friends and Ballistic Expert

Born November 12th, 1982

Died February 14, 2017

She doesn’t have an actual date of death, but it is a day after his last phone call, and Alana, trying hard not to think about it, assumes that they took their time. She wonders if Daniel had actually thought being murdered on Valentine’s Day by his lover was romantic.

There were other things she had considered putting on his headstone.

Too stupid to live. Finally got exactly what he wanted. In a love triangle with Hades. Selfish fucking bastard.

She isn’t angry with Daniel. Or she is trying not to be. What good will that do? He is the victim here and he is gone and that’s why she can’t stand it. But it is hard when this is the outcome he has been chasing since the beginning. It is hard when he has made her a part of this.

Daniel never would have believed it but there are easily a hundred people there. His parents, of course, because even if they are garbage people who don’t deserve him they can’t really justify not attending their own son’s funeral. People would talk and they’d have to admit just how badly they had failed him. It boils her blood to see them but she doesn’t know what she would have done if they hadn’t come.

Old friends of theirs from high school are there. People who work at stores they had gone to. Daniel was so goddamn young and his death is such a mystery that of course people feel they had to come. None of them know him half as well as she does and she has nothing to say to any of them. She tries anyway. For his sake.

Everyone approaches her, telling her how sorry they are. Everyone assumes she is the grieving girlfriend. Everyone always assumes she is his girlfriend despite just how impossible that would have been on so many levels. She doesn’t even have the energy to argue, not today. What does it even matter? She’d rather they think that than have any inkling of where Daniel’s tastes truly lied. Anyone she hears even vaguely victim blame Daniel is going to face the wrath of a very talented computer genius with a lot of simmering anger and no proper outlet for it.

Klein is there, too. Derek Klein, the boy who had apparently loved Daniel too damn much to stay. Alana hates him, a little bit, for being such a coward but she knows he wouldn’t have sent him running after a serial killer either. No, he probably would have had him committed, not that that would have helped so much either. And it isn’t like he hadn’t been on suicide watch before.

“I knew this would happen,” he says, once they are the last two standing beside Daniel’s grave. There is no body, but it is something. He wouldn’t want to be buried, she knows. He would want to be turned into fireworks. And if she ever gets the chance, she will do so. The biggest fireworks anyone has ever seen. “I fucking knew this would happen. I told him. I told him and he actually looked hopeful.”

“I can’t believe this,” Alana says. “He’s been saying he wanted it for so long I can’t remember when he even started, but I still can’t believe it finally happened.”

“When I got the call I knew,” Klein says. “I’m honestly surprised that it took this long.”

“Maybe he found something to live for.” The words hurt to say, even if they do have a ring of truth to them. Daniel had loved her every bit as much as she still loves him but somehow that never was enough for him. She isn’t egotistical enough to take it personally but it still hurts something fierce.

“Or to d— never mind,” Klein says, shoving his hands awkwardly in his pockets. He isn’t trying to be cruel but he just knows Daniel too damn well not to know that somehow this is his doing. “Do you know why I broke up with him?”

Alana scrunches up her nose. “Something about him having a death wish and you not wanting to watch him die?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Klein nods. “One time we had this huge fight about therapy. I kept telling him that he should go, that he didn’t have to live like this. He told me he didn’t have to live at all so cut him some slack. I didn’t want to push but I was really worried about him. The way he talked about death… so casual and so fucking awed.”

Alana closes her eyes.

“I never liked it either, but I never stopped him. I knew he’d be thinking it anyway and if he couldn’t tell me about it then who could he tell? I didn’t want him to have to keep all that bottled up. I knew he never told me everything anyway. He was always trying to protect me from his own fucked up shit.”

“I remember what ended the fight and what, really, ended the whole thing even though it took me a little while after that to actually pull the trigger on our relationship. I really loved him, you know,” Klein says wistfully. “He just looked at me, so soft and loving and almost pitying, and he said ‘you can’t save me, Derek. I won’t let you.’ And I knew he was right. And so I left. I had to, for my own sanity.”

Alana nods. He had said that to her as well. Not in those words, but in a million other ways in the things he said and did and the way he would look at her. And she had known that and she had accepted that and, God help her, she had tried anyway. Impossibly she is still trying. And now here they are.

“I’m glad he had you, Alana,” Klein says. “You were always stronger than me. He never would have made it as long as he did if it weren’t for you.”

He never would have been able to go chasing after his serial killer if it weren’t for her, either. But she always knew he’d find a way. Is that what friendship is? Letting him make his own decisions? But what kind of decisions would he have made if he had never crossed paths with Warren fucking Kepler?

“I’m not done yet,” she says quietly. “Not by a long shot.”

\---

_Then_

Alana emailed him a blurry photo of what looks like security footage. The figure in the image was nearly indescribably, a unmarked baseball cap pulled over his face and a loose black hoodie draped over his body. But his hands were strangely in focus, and Daniel would recognize those anyway.

He called her immediately.

“How did you find him?” He asked, staring at the screen. He couldn’t stop looking at the photo.

“There’s no way you can be sure it’s him. And anyway, this is one of those things you’re going to have to wave away as computer magic.”

“That complicated?”

“You told me he was _dreamy_ and had great hands. You couldn’t even remember the bar you were at. I didn’t have a lot to work with.”

“He does have great hands.”

“If you say so.”

“So where is he?”

“Daniel…”

“Oh come on. You’ll find him, but you won’t tell me where he is?”

“I found bad security footage from two days ago.”

“ _Alana_ …” he whined, and Alana sighed.

“I tracked, and no, don’t ask me how, the person in this photo to Oakland. He switched cars— and honestly I hope your guy isn’t that sloppy normally, because he’s now parked outside the Blue Cove Motel just outside the city.” Daniel shut his laptop and shoved his wallet in his back pocket.

“What’s the room number?” Alana doesn’t respond. “‘Lana, I know you know it.”

“Four,” she said. “Daniel—”

“Okay, okay, thank you, love you, talk to you later maybe? Bye!” He hung up, but his phone started buzzing immediately.

“Alana—”

“ _Don’t you fucking dare hang up on me like that again_ ,” Alana hissed. “If you are going to go throw yourself at a potential serial killer, you are going to say goodbye to me like the closest thing to a normal person you can manage, okay?”

“Fine,” said Daniel. “I am now going to go throw myself at a potential serial killer. Thank you for all of your help, best friend of mine. Hugs and kisses.”

“Be careful, you asshole,” she said, and ended the call.

On his way out he checked himself over in the mirror, briefly. What is someone supposed to look like before they ask a serial killer to finish the job? He looked somewhat nicer than he did the other night, but maybe his guy liked the grungy drunk look? Daniel thought about calling Alana back for advice, but she wasn’t good with that kind of thing and she might have reached through the phone and strangled him for even thinking about it.

He took a cab to the motel and then walked over to room four. The car Alana mentioned wasn’t parked outside, so he sat by the door and waited. After an hour, he tried picking the lock to the room with his debit card, and he’s surprised to see that the trick actually worked.

The room looked entirely untouched, no suitcase in the corner or a damp towel hanging in the bathroom. Daniel opened all of the draws and poked into the closet, but those were all empty too. There was nothing to indicate that someone is staying here, but he remembered a Pryce and Carter’s tip, something about “ _leaving a place better than when you found it, as if you weren’t there at all. Better not to leave any witnesses.”_

Great, he thought.

There are two beds in the room, and Daniel stood between them for a moment, trying to figure out which one the man slept it, but there’s no difference. He sat down on the one that’s farther from the door but with a better view, careful not to disturb the duvet. It wrinkled under him anyway, so he stood back up and smoothed it out with his hands.

Another hour passed, and Daniel was about to consider that Alana got the wrong room (or more likely, that the man already left,) but then he heard the door creak open and he scrambled to his feet from where he was sitting, leaning against the nightstand.

“Oh!” He said, unable to stop a grin from stretching across his face. “Hi.”

Even in the shadows, the man is just like he remembered from his drunken haze, a strong jaw and salt and pepper hair at his temples. In one of his hands was a black leather duffle bag, and the other rested against his hip. The man looked up at him, his hard eyes locking with Daniel’s, and Daniel drank in the image.

“I’m, uh, Daniel,” he said, wiping his palms against his pants. “We met the other night?” The man shut the door quietly and placed his bag on the floor next to him. “I wanted to apologize. I interrupted your whole thing, and you can do it again if you want.”

“Apologize?” The man stretched each syllable out, working them over with his mouth. He hadn't moved from the entrance, and Daniel watched him scan the room with his eyes.

“For weirding you out. When you were trying to kill me.”

“You didn’t… weird me out.”

“You bandaged me up and left me in a bar bathroom. Also, you specifically didn’t kill me.”

“What makes you think I was planning to kill you?”

“I— what?” The man across from him raised his eyebrow.

“What makes… you think… I was going to kill you?”

“The giant knife? The tying me up in an abandoned building? The really fucking hot way you told me that you were going to ‘cut my fucking throat?” Daniel finger quoted the last part. “Did you actually think I was on drugs and wouldn’t remember the whole thing?”

The man didn’t say anything, just took a flask out of his jacket pocket and took a swig, watching Daniel carefully.

“I’m not here to turn you in, or anything,” Daniel said. “I’m really just here to die.”

“There are easier ways to do that.”

“Yeah, probably.” Daniel said. He rubs at a spot on the carpet with his shoe. “Do you want to go some place else to do it? Or— did you just get back from killing someone else? Are you all murdered out now? I’m fine with rescheduling, but it was kind of tricky tracking you down, so I’d prefer to stick around until you’re ready.” He laughed a little. “And I guess you won’t want me out of your sight, either.”

“Take off your clothes,” the man said.

“Oh! Okay, yeah.” Daniel tugged his shirt off, tossed it to the side and then started unbuttoning his pants. “Are we doing it here then?”

The man stepped forward and yanked down Daniel’s pants, and Daniel shuddered and nearly fell over. He caught himself on the other man’s shoulder, and only released him when the man shot him a glance.

“Oh, wait,” said Daniel. “What’s your name?”

The man ignored him in favor of poking through his clothes, turning them inside out and shaking them as if he’s trying to pry something loose. Daniel sat on the bed and took off his shoes and socks, and then slipped out of his underwear, trying really, really hard not to touch himself because that scared the guy away last time.

Somehow this wasn’t the right move either, because when he looked up from Daniel’s clothes, the man was surprised to see him naked.

“Sorry,” said Daniel, “I’ll—” As he reached for his underwear, the man grabbed his wrist. Then he performed the same thorough search on the rest of his clothes. Daniel watched, confused yet still turned on. After a minute, the man tossed his clothes back to him.

“Dress,” he said.

“Oh,” Daniel said, disappointed. But the man watched him dress and then took another swig from his flask. As soon as Daniel’s fully clothed, the man picked up his bag and gestured towards the door. Daniel follows him to his car.

In the passenger seat of a grey sedan, Daniel tapped his fingers against his leg.

“So,” he started to say, but the man interrupted him.

“My name is Warren.”

“Warren,” said Daniel, rolling the name around his mouth. He looks like a Warren. “So, Warren, where are we going?”

“Why are you really here?”

“I told you. To die.” Warren shook his head.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I really am. For you to kill me, specifically. I said all of this already. And what was that, back in the room?” Warren muttered something about stupid questions as he pulled onto a highway.

“I was... checking you for wires.” Daniel laughed.

“What? Did you think I was spying on you?”

“How did you find me?”

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Daniel countered, and Warren frowned.

“Are you… answering every questions I ask with another question?”

“Have you never played Questions Only?”

“No.”

“Well, you just lost,” said Daniel. “Anyway, I had help from a friend who did some kind of dark computer voodoo magic she won’t tell me about. Don’t feel bad though— it took her nearly two days, and we weren’t totally sure it was really you.”

Warren didn’t respond, just kept watching the road.

“Anywho,” said Daniel. “Are we going some place for you to kill me now?”

“Why are you so determined for me to kill you?”

“Are you saying you aren’t going to do it?”

“Just answer the question, Daniel.”

“I don’t know, really,” he said. “It’s just— suicide is so impersonal, you know? And I’m not depressed. I just love it. Death. My death. Masochism over sadism. It’s who I am.” He chuckled. “It’s probably pretty close to why you’re out here tonight.” He looked over to see Warren watching him, thoughtfully. “So, did I bare my soul enough for you to…”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“...bare my guts? Oh come on, I had to.”

Warren smiled at him, a quick flash of teeth and said, “sure Daniel, I’ll kill you.” Daniel greatly resisted the urge to fist pump.

“Really? Great! This is… _thank you_. When are we going to it? Now?” Warren shook his head.

“No… we’re going to take a detour first.”

\---

_Then_

For someone who was beginning to suspect he was just really bad at this whole getting himself killed thing, Daniel was practically buzzing with excitement when he called Alana.

“He...”

“I did it! I found him! You found him for me! He’s going to kill me! Thank you so much!”

The line was silent.

“Alana?”

“Jesus Christ. Like right now? Is he going to go get his chainsaw and he’ll be right back? How did he let you keep your phone? And, not for nothing, but why are you calling me instead of the police?” She paused. “Oh, wait. I know why.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “A chainsaw? Are you even kidding me?”

“What? That’s how my mental picture of a serial killer looks like.”

“Is your podcast only about chainsaw people?”

He couldn’t see her but he imagined she was crossing her arms defensively. “I saw Texas Chainsaw Massacre at a _really_ formative age.”

“I really hope you think better of me than to think that if I were literally moments away from being murdered and I did call you I’d at least have something more, I don’t know, touchy-feely to talk about than your incredibly weird ideas about serial killers. But we’re going to need to talk about this, you know. At length.”

“Daniel, you know I will happily talk about anything at length with you,” Alana said. “Though can you give me a minute?”

“Uh, sure.”

He idly toyed with the cut Warren had given him on his upper arm while he waited for her to come back.

“Okay, sorry, I had to grab some alcohol,” she said.

Daniel made a face. “Hey, how come I don’t get any alcohol?”

“Because you’re too far away for me to share mine and I guess whatever great life decisions you’ve made today did not involve stopping for liquor.”

Daniel made a wordless sound of agreement.

“Also, at least my weird ideas about serial killers aren’t that they are people I should seek out.”

Daniel laughed. “You say that now. Wait until sweeps month. Wait, do podcasts even have sweeps months?”

“No, but we do have season finales,” Alana said. “Not that I would go out and track down an active serial killer for that! I like living. A lot.”

“I would say something about you not being a true artist but it hardly seems fair when you can’t throw anything at me.”

“How considerate,” Alana said dryly. “So if you found him, but he’s not going to kill you yet but he will in the future… what’s even going on over there?”

“Well, I tracked him down and apologized for weirding him out before—”

“Just so we’re clear, you apologized to the man who openly wanted to kill you for behaving in a way that accidentally saved your life,” Alana interrupted.

“Yes. That. This just seemed to weird him out more and he was willing to try again, probably because I tracked him down and he doesn’t want to get caught, but then… I don’t know. He got all weird again and I asked if he was going to leave again and he said what was the point because I could just find him again.”

“You asked him to kill you, didn’t you?”

“Hey, I have found that being direct often gets you the best results,” Daniel said. “He looked like he thought I was on drugs again even though I was completely sober and then I kind of started pestering him to kill me because, come on, I came all this way and kind of have my heart set on it.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Well, not yet,” Daniel said. “I still really don’t get why.”

“It might take away something from the whole experience if the victim is into it.”

“I guess,” Daniel said doubtfully. “But I’m still a pretty clear threat to him, right? You’d think he could get over whatever weird hang-ups he has.”

“You know, the last time we had a conversation about other people needing to get over their weird hang-ups it was about Chris and his reluctance to tie you up,” Alana said.

He laughed. “Warren’s tied me up.” Alana gagged.

“This calls for shots,” she announced. “Be right back.”

Daniel groaned. “I want shots. Why don’t I have shots?”

Alana came back to the phone. “Okay, I needed that. So what happened next?”

“He got all annoyed and was like ‘I’m going to kill you but on my schedule. You don’t dictate terms. And you clearly can’t be expected to make good life decisions.’”

“I cannot be agreeing with a serial killer who is going to kill you,” Alana said, horrified.

“Statistically, Alana, you know you’re going to have to agree with him on something.”

“Statistically, I don’t have to accept that,” she countered.

“You two have the same taste in dogs.”

“I did not need to know that. Why would I need to know that? Why would you know that?”

“So, we’re just going to travel around together until he finally gets over himself and kills me,” Daniel said.

Silence.

“Alana?”

“I just… really feel like you need an adult right now.”

“I am an adult,” Daniel said. “And so is Warren.”

“Are you going to, I don’t know, becoming his accomplice or something?” Alana asked. “Train in the art of serial killing?”

Daniel thought about it. “I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about it. He just looked so done with everything from the moment I showed up. I guess I’m an accessory by default because I know what he’s up to and I’m not doing anything about it even though he doesn’t have me like, drugged or chained up in the trunk or whatever.”

“You can stop sounding quite so excited about the prospect,” Alana said. “And would that make me an accessory as well?”

“I… think it might be one degree of separation too many,” Daniel said. “And you’ve broken like, hundreds of laws anyway, so I know you’re not going to let this freak you out.”

“I really should report all this to the police.”

“But you won’t because you love me.”

“I should because I love you,” Alana said, but that wasn’t a disagreement, exactly.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments.

Finally, Daniel said, “You know this is for real, right, Alana? He really is going to kill me and I really do want him to. And I don’t know if we’ll ever see each other again. Not in person anyway, there’s always Face Time.”

The silence grew heavier.

“Daniel,” said Alana, and then stopped. “Just— stay in touch, alright? Make sure to call me before… whatever happens.”

“When I die.”

“Yes, that. Don’t disappear on me.”

“Okay,” he said, and nodded slowly even though he knew she couldn’t see him. He wondered, not for the first time, what someone like him had done to deserve someone like her. He couldn’t imagine he’d be willing to do so much to help her die the way she wanted if their positions were reversed and he had to face the prospect of living without her.

“But, seriously, you have to tell me whether you were actually forced to go through with taking pictures of a plastic skeleton proposing to you to convince that guy Matt that you weren’t interested and never would be.”

She laughed, a little quieter than usual but genuine. “Have to? No. Totally did it anyway? Well… I think you know the answer to that one.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Now_

Alana takes another sip of her margarita and wonders what she is even doing here.

Not that she has been given much of a choice.

She has just stepped out of the prison when Minkowski and Lovelace swoop down on her and somehow manage to get her into this bar with them. Apparently they are celebrating tonight and she really looks like she could use a drink.

Well, she can’t exactly disagree there.

“So I’m just going off on a hunch, you know? Victim’s family comes to me and insists that he actually got sicker the more he went to Dr. Hilbert and now he’s dead so they want answers. And it sounds like classic denial, sure, but they send me out to check into it just in case,” Lovelace is saying. She downs another shot.

Minkowski laughs. “Somehow I don’t think obtaining a list of all of his deceased patients and putting out feelers for patients who are in the middle of a long-term illness then questioning them and friends or family members of the deceased counts as ‘just checking it out’.”

“Well, what can I say?” Lovelace asks. “I’ve got an eye for serial killers, I guess. Individually it all checks out, nothing out of the ordinary. People die and every death makes sense on its own. But there was just something about him that made me want to slap a pair of handcuffs on him and shove him in my car—”

“Kinky,” Alana says.

Lovelace shoots her such an appalled look that she can’t help but laugh. Or maybe that is the margarita talking.

“So anyway, I kept digging and I got autopsies done and eventually I had enough that it caught the higher-ups attention and they told me they were bringing the FBI in,” Lovelace continues. “Which is a cop’s worst nightmare, let me tell you, but—”

“Okay, hold on,” Minkowski interrupts. “Why is it always ‘oh no, the FBI is here!’ every time we get assigned a case? I mean, I get that from the criminals but half the time it’s the officers who are more annoyed to see us.”

“It’s such a cliché,” Alana agrees.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” Lovelace says.

Minkowski gives her a deeply unimpressed look.

“It’s just…” Lovelace makes a series of complicated hand gestures. “You know?”

“I really don’t.”

“It’s nothing personal, Renée. It’s just that cops are very territorial, I guess, and we’ve been doing all this great work and really breaking a case and suddenly it’s too important or dangerous for us so they call you guys in and now you’re running the show.”

“It’s not meant to be demeaning,” Minkowski says. “We’ve just got specialized training for certain situations and we’re here to work together to stop major crimes or to catch the worst of the worst.”

“Uh-huh.”

To Alana’s surprise, Minkowski laughs. “I know, I know. You’ve read the handbook.”

“And don’t even tell me some feds aren’t total dicks to us regular cops,” Lovelace says. “I had a good idea once and one of them damn near patted me on the head!”

“Well,” Minkowski says after a moment. “Sometimes there be dicks.”

Lovelace bursts out laughing. “See, Maxwell? This is why I was glad that instead of one of the usual assholes I was expecting it was Renée that showed up.”

“I get that a lot,” Minkowski says dryly. “So we looked into Dr. Hilbert further and found out that that isn’t even his real name. We traced him to a Dr. Elias Selberg who left a position at a top Chicago hospital amidst scandal about the number of his patients who either died or became sicker after they began to see him. There was a pending investigation but he was gone before they were able to bring any charges.”

“And he was there for ten years!” Lovelace bursts out. “And another seven here in DC. If I hadn’t caught that case and trusted my gut then who even knows how much damage he could have done?”

“And Elias Selberg wasn’t even his real name,” Minkowski adds. “We traced him back to a Dr. Dmitri Volodin who apparently had a similar history over in Russia and he ended up having to flee the country.”

“I’m not even convinced Volodin is his real name,” Lovelace says. “But it’s what we’ve got and this asshole is going to go away for a very, very long time. Go team us!”

“I do so like putting away serial killers,” Minkowski says with a fond smile. “And not to keep beating a dead horse but—”

Lovelace sighs. “I know, I know. And I’ll think about it.”

“Think about what?” Alana asks curiously.

“Renée wants me to look into applying for the FBI. She said I made a good impression with this case,” Lovelace explains.

“You did and you should.”

Lovelace gives her a look.

Minkowski holds up her hands.” I know, I know…”

“So what was this Hilbert guy doing anyway?” Alana asks. “And do you know why?”

“Careful,” Lovelace says, smirking. “She’s got a podcast.”

“Yeah, and I’m not about to start recording at a bar.”

“It’s fine. We wouldn’t have told you the story if you don’t get the fun details,” Minkowski says. “He was injecting some of his patients with this virus he had called the Koschei Bessmertny Virus. It was supposed to somehow induce rapid healing thus saving a lot of lives. But it’s killed a lot of people, and it’s not like he obtained informed consent on this.”

“I know that name,” Alana says, surprised. “That’s that old Russian folklore, right?”

Lovelace shrugs. “We didn’t exactly Google it.”

Alana nods. “Yeah, I remember. Koschei the Deathless. He's… well he's really evil but I guess so is being a serial killer. He's like this evil wizard or something that kidnaps young women. His soul—well, he calls it his death—is stored somewhere outside of his body and he can only be killed by breaking the object containing his death. So I guess if this virus requires doing evil in order to stave off death then it sort of makes sense?”

Lovelace groans. “Don’t try to get inside a serial killer’s head. Therein lies madness.”

“Or at least don’t do it once the serial killer is caught,” Minkowski amends. “Listen, Dr. Maxwell, there was another reason we brought you out here tonight.”

“What?” Alana asks, faking surprise. “You mean you didn’t just want to randomly celebrate a cool work accomplishment with a person you barely know?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Lovelace says. “You’ve been plenty fun tonight. But no, that’s not all of it.”

Alana steels herself. “I’m ready.”

“You look like you’re about to get interrogated,” Minkowski says. “And I’m not exaggerating, I have literally seen you during an interrogation and you look exactly the same.”

“Am I wrong to worry?”

Minkowski sighs. “The thing is, Alana...we’re concerned.”

“About climate change?” Alana asks.

Lovelace snorts. “It’s hardly unreasonable to be concerned about you.”

Alana carefully studies her nails. “I suppose not. Daniel’s death was...a lot.”

Minkowski nods. “Right, so we’d be worried if that was just it but it’s clearly not. And from what I know of what you did after suspecting your friend died I think I can safely say that you don’t do things by halves. And you’re visiting Warren Kepler. Weekly.”

“You knew I was doing this,” Alana says. “You signed off on this.”

“Well I didn’t,” Lovelace says.

Alana smiles tightly. “Forgive me but is it really your job to approve or disapprove?”

“No but seeing as how I seem to be the only one at this table who seems to realize what a completely stupid idea this is, I thought I’d weigh in anyway.”

“It’s not like I don’t have reservations,” Minkowski says. “But she wanted to visit him and it’s not like I think she’s a sympathizer or anything. Whether or not I think it is healthy for Dr. Maxwell to do, it’s not really my place to stop her.”

Lovelace barks out a laugh. “Not healthy? Not healthy is when she stays up for three days straight coding or forgets to eat for twelve hours and makes ramen. This is something else entirely. The man is a monster and he killed her best friend.”

“I’ll thank you not to talk about me like I’m not here,” Alana snaps.

Lovelace switches her glare to her. “Fine. Justify this shit.”

Alana crosses her arms. “Why should I have to? I have a right to see him.”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap. You have a right to keep doing shots until you drop but I don’t see you rushing to do that.”

“Those two things have nothing in common.”

“Just because you have the right to do something doesn’t explain why you’re doing it or making it any less goddamn stupid,” Lovelace says.

Minkowski puts a steadying hand on Lovelace’s arm. “I’ve got this. Dr. Maxwell, no one is questioning your right to be there but I have the power to remove people from the visitor’s list at my discretion. I was always...uneasy with your choice to see Kepler. I certainly didn’t expect you to become his most frequent visitor. I think Lovelace’s concerns have merit so I’m afraid that, whether you like it or not, I’m going to need you to explain this. You said you wanted closure but it’s been a lot of weeks. Do you intend to keep coming by forever?”

“Not forever. Just as long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes for what?” Lovelace demands.

“I just want...no I need…” Alana trails off, uncertain of how to even finish that thought. She needs Daniel to call her in the middle of the most productive bit of coding she’s done in months because he is stranded in the middle of a crime-ridden area and can’t resist provoking everyone. She needs him to change all the settings on her phone and have no idea how to fix it. She needs him to get crumbs all over her keyboard. She just needs him back.

“What do you need that Kepler could possibly give you?” Lovelace presses.

“I need to see him behind bars,” Alana says. “I need to look at him and know that he’s not going to be able to do to anyone else what he did to Daniel. Or Tracy. Morgan. Samuel. Any of them.”

“I can see that,” Lovelace said, nodding. “I saw him once myself. There was some gloating, I’ll admit, and it was good. But you just keep coming back. Surely by now you’ve proven it to yourself.”

What can she possibly say? She knows what they would say. It is reckless. It is stupid. He might never tell her just to watch her suffer. He might give her an answer and it will be a lie. It just isn’t worth it.

Except that it is.

Except that right now this is the only thing that felt real to her.

And none of that will stop Minkowski from barring her from going within 100 feet of the prison.

“I guess I can’t pretend that visiting him is healthy,” Alana admits.

“Finally! Progress!” Lovelace cheers.

“Before I started visiting him, sometimes I’d stay up all night just staring at the walls,” Alana says. “Sometimes I’d try and imagine what was going through Daniel’s head to make him do some of the things he did. Sometimes I’d almost want to see for myself. I— I guess I thought visiting Kepler would take me down less of a rabbit hole.”

Lovelace leans back, looking decidedly unimpressed.

But Minkowski is frowning at her. “We gave you plenty of resources for the guilt and trauma I know you’re going through. Have you used any of them?”

Alana smiles thinly. “I figure out the words for what I’m going through and I’ll consider speaking them to someone else.”

“You don’t have those words for Kepler?”

“I don’t know if you listen in on those conversations we have but I don’t talk much,” Alana says. “He just goes off on these long bullshit stories and it tells me nothing. I want to understand and this seemed like the best bad idea I’ve got.”

“Renée, you cannot possibly be buying this,” Lovelace protests. “This isn’t some fucked up way to cope with everything and she’s not going to dive headfirst into self-harm or whatever if you say no! Nothing good can come from this!”

“Maybe not,” Minkowski says slowly, her eyes not leaving Alana’s. “But would anything good come from stopping her? I just...Maybe it’s not my place, Dr. Maxwell, but I worry. I’ve seen this kind of thing before and I know how it can eat you up inside. Do what you have to just...promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

It’s only too bad she has made her promise to Daniel first.

\---

_Then_

Daniel had gotten really good at sleeping in cars. He woke up tangled in his own sweatshirt, and heard Warren fiddling with the radio and muttering something about finding a news station that isn’t entirely static.

Warren always picked nondescript, reliable, old cars for them to take around. Otherwise known as boring. At least Daniel got to blow the last one up. Technically he was just supposed to burn it down, but he thought he would get points for style. Warren did not agree.

He opened his eyes and rubbed at his face, frowning. His mouth tasted disgusting. In the cup holder closest to him, there was a pack of gum and a bottle of water.

“Where are we now?” Daniel asked, popping two pieces of gum in his mouth.

“Pennsylvania,” said Warren, who adds about eight syllables to the state. “I thought we might make our way down the coast. Did I ever tell you about my first time at a beach? Well...” Daniel looked out the window as he half listened to the story, making sure to grunt in awe and admiration in the appropriate times. It was drizzling, and he watched the tiny droplets skate across the glass and fuse with each other. He traced one as it made its way down before flying back behind the car.

“Long story short?” said Warren, “they named a species of manatee after me.”

“Can we stop in DC?” Daniel asked suddenly.

“Why?”

“Alana’s there. We could stop and say hi.” Warren drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and glanced over, frowning.

“Washington is… not a great place for me. Too many cameras. And a… _particularly_ tenacious cop that’s looking for me.”

“How does she even know who to look for?” Warren laughed.

“I killed her.” Daniel nearly choked on his gum, and coughing, reached for the water bottle.

“You…”

“It didn’t take. You know, she’s actually the only one to escape.”

“Oh,” said Daniel, and turned back to the window. Only one to ever escape, huh. That’s great. That’s just super. He tapped his fingers against the glass, urging the stalled drops on. They drive in silence for a few minutes, and when the rain started to pick up, Warren turned on the windshield wipers.

“What are you moping about? If you’re so… determined to meet up with your friend, then—”

“It’s not that. Alana will understand.”

“Do you want me to guess?” Daniel tapped at the window. “How about a game, then? Do you want to play a game, Daniel?”

“I don’t want to play Questions Only.”

“If you didn’t enjoy Questions Only then why did you teach me the game?”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “How could I have _possibly_ known that this game would turn you into a monster?”

“What game would you prefer to play?” Daniel groaned and looks back at Warren, who was watching the road intently. Fine.

“Weren’t you going to guess what I was thinking about?”

“Is that what you want me to do?”

“Why did the cop live?”

“Are you asking me if I let her go?”

“What makes her so special?” Daniel asked, a little louder.

“Is this really what you wanted to ask me?”

“Do you really think she’s the only one who escaped?”

“Do you remember what happened that night, Daniel? Do you remember how it went?” Yes, Daniel thought. Vividly.

“Are you avoiding the subject?”

“Do you really think I meant to let someone escape? Wouldn’t it make more sense, Daniel, that I made a mistake?”

“You don’t make mistakes,” Daniel said, and Warren turned to him and smirked. “Wait, no—”

“What’s the name of the game, Daniel?” He sighed and leaned back in the seat.

“Questions Only.”

“You’re not very good at this game, are you?”

“Are you still playing?”

“Aren’t we always?” Daniel didn’t respond, and instead let the hum of the windshield wipers fill the silence. “I was... interrupted with Isabel Lovelace, and she was saved by what I assume was a miraculous team of doctors. I’m glad you think so highly of me, Daniel, but sometimes things just don’t work out. That’s why we use the Manual.”

“It’s a weird fucking book,” he muttered, and Warren patted his knee, and then left the hand there, rubbing small circles with his thumb. Daniel relaxed under his grip and closed his eyes for a moment. Then, his eyes flew open.

“Wait a second,” said Daniel, looking over at Warren. “We were in Missouri. How many hours did I sleep?”

“Oh, eight or so.”

“Did you fucking _drug_ me?

“I told you not to mess with my car, Daniel.”

\---

_Now_

It’s Tuesday, and Alana hands over her ID to the guard on duty, who looks at it and says, “Oh shoot, you’re here for Kepler?”

Alana nods and says, “Yes.”

“He’s with his lawyer.”

“Oh,” she says.

“Oh no, they’re expecting you. Come on.”

She follows Eiffel past the phone banks, past the larger in person meeting room, and down an unfamiliar hall to a room that looks closer to the interrogation room where Minkowski first interviewed her, with a long metal table and muted windows.

Kepler is handcuffed to the table, a long chain between his hands, and across from him is a man in a dark suit and a darker head of hair. Kepler looks up when they walk in, and for a brief moment, his eyes widen.

“Here we go,” says Eiffel, and the man stands up and smiles wide.

“Thank you, Doug,” he says, and then looks right at Alana. The lawyer is the kind of attractive her mother would have liked, with a plastic sheen that waltzed off of a daytime television show. He might be either 30 or 60, depending on which way you looked at him, and there was something beyond the immediate sleazy lawyer impression she tries to dismiss.

Eiffel leaves, and the door shuts behind him.

The lawyer gestures to the chair next to his, and Alana sits. She does her best to shuffle the chairs apart, but though the man looked lanky, when he sits his shoulder brushes right against Alana’s.

“Hello, Alana. My name is Mr. Cutter. Warren has told me so much about you.” His smile hasn’t wavered, and she’s sitting too close to see more than one part of his face at once, forcing her eyes to flicker across him.

“Hi,” she says, and Cutter laughs.

“This one’s a lot quieter, isn’t she Warren.”

She realizes that Kepler hasn’t said anything since she walked in, which is a new experience. The look on his face is complicated, one she hasn’t seen from him before, though she has nothing but the ‘weirdly cordial storytelling face’ to compare it to.

“You’re Kepler’s lawyer?” She asks.

“I’m… more of an advisor.”

“Okay,” she says, looking back up Cutter. “And you wanted to see me? About his case? I’m not going to— speak on his behalf, or anything like that. That’s not why I’m here.”

“And why are you here, Alana?” He asks, his thin smile never wavering.

“Sir—” Says Kepler, and they both turn to look at him. “This might not… be the best use of our time.”

“I think we have all of the time in the world, don’t we Warren?” Cutter’s expression doesn’t change, but it feels like the temperature in the room drops for how chilling the man’s voice turned. He’s still pressed up against her arm, and Alana’s heart jumps a notch. She starts to tap her leg—the one on the other side of Cutter, but she thinks he notices anyway.

Kepler sets his jaw, and she watches him hold Cutter’s gaze for a moment, then two, and then he looks away. Cutter chuckles.

“It was nice to see you, Warren,” Cutter says, and as he stands he manages to brush his hand all the way up Alana’s arm. She doesn’t shudder, but stares very intently at the wall behind Kepler’s head. Behind her, Cutter knocks on the door.

“You all set?” Asks Eiffel, stepping back in.

“I am.”

“Dr. Maxwell?” Eiffel calls her name, but she’s still frozen to her seat. She’s fine here, thanks. She doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to be anywhere near that man, and how is it, she thinks, a little hysterically, that she’d prefer to stay in a room with Daniel’s killer?

“Dr. Maxwell,” says Kepler, and she looks back at him, snapping back to reality. She still can’t read his face, but he’s still missing the mask he usually wears when she visits, and there’s the edge of something in his voice, something she might confuse for kindness.

“Yeah,” she says, and stands up. She follows Eiffel and Cutter out of the room as another guard walks past them to take care of Kepler. There’s a moment when she considers turning back to look at him, but she doesn’t, just walks a step behind the two men down the long hallway to the entrance.

Cutter says, “It was wonderful to see you, Alana,” and then exits before she can react. Even though she watches him leave the room, it feels like she’s standing in cold water, a sharp dread tugging at her nerves.

She’s still numb when she leaves, and it’s only after a hot shower and two cups of coffee that she finally shakes the feeling.

\---

_Then_

They’re sitting in a Waffle House somewhere in Florida, and Warren refused to sit on the same side of the booth as him.

“That’s the sort of thing that calls attention,” he said. Daniel stole another french fry off of his plate. “If you wanted fries, you should have ordered fries.”

“They taste better this way.” Warren nudged his foot under the table as their waitress came by to check on them. As Warren charmed her out of another soda, Daniel studies the booth and wondered if it would be possible to get on his knees without anyone noticing.

“No,” said Warren, as the waitress left.

“How did you...” he trailed off, but Warren just raised an eyebrow at him. “Whatever. Drink refills are free here, by the way.” He reached across the table for another fry and Warren caught his hand, briefly stroking the inside of his wrist before pushing him away from the plate.

“Have you ever had fried gator?” Daniel wrinkled his nose, and made another play for the fries. At this point, he’s mostly hoping Warren will grab his hand again.

“No.”

“Don’t make that face. Did I ever tell you about the time I worked on an alligator ranch? Why…” Warren trailed off and set his jaw, looking at the entrance to the restaurant.

“What?” He asked, and then there’s a hand resting on his shoulder.

“Warren!” Said the figure above him. “You didn’t tell me you were going to be in the neighborhood.” Daniel looked up as a man in a well-tailored linen suit smiled brightly down at Warren.

“Mr. Cutter.”

“I was just telling Rachel how it was so unlike you not to check in, and here you are!” The man named Cutter squeezed his shoulder just to the point of pain. “And who is this?”

“Sir,” said Warren, and Daniel twisted his body, dislodging the hand, and reached his own up to shake.

“Daniel Jacobi,” he said, matching the man’s smile. “Do you want some fries?” Cutter threw his head back and laughed.

“Warren, where did you pick him up?” As Daniel slid down the booth to give Cutter space to sit, he saw Warren look like he wants to strangle him. Perfect. Cutter sat down more gracefully than one should be able to at a diner and arranged himself in the middle of the booth, directly across from Warren.

The waitress returned with Warren’s soda.

“Can I get you something?” She asked Cutter, who smiled up at her.

“I don’t suppose you have chai back there, do you?

“A what?”

“I’m all set here.” The waitress walked away, and Warren cleared his throat.

“Sir,” Warren tried again, and Cutter produced a piece of paper and passed it across the table.

“This hasn’t been a very good quarter for you, Warren. But that can’t be a surprise, can it.” Daniel, somewhat squashed in the corner of the booth, watched at Warren tried not to scowl.

“Sir, my numbers have been—”

“Oh, Warren. You know I don’t care about numbers. It’s always been about quality over quantity. Substance _and_ style.” He wagged his finger. “You’ve gotten sloppy.”

“Mr. Cutter, it takes time to train a partner. When you and Dr. Pryce started working together—”

“Miranda is not a _groupie_ ,” Cutter said, much quieter, and Daniel suddenly realized that they’ve been talking about him.

“You kill people too?” He blurted out. Warren put his face in his hands.

“If you have to be so banal about it,” said Cutter.

“Is he your murder boss?” He asked Warren, who muttered, “Daniel, shut up” through his fingers. “He tried to kill me, you know. But then stopped in the middle. And now he refuses to finish the job. You should dock his pay, or something.” Mr. Cutter studied him, and Daniel tried not to squirm under his gaze. He suddenly felt trapped against the back of the booth, and not in a good way.

“What would you prefer, Daniel? Warren is a traditionalist, but I could move things along for you. Take this here,” he said softly, lifting Daniel’s fork, “and carve out your lungs. Or go into the kitchen and drown you in boiling oil? Or I could just take out the gun in my pocket and shoot you in the head. Your choice.”

Daniel could hear his heart pounding in his ears, but it’s different than the way he felt when Warren took his knives out. Warren, who out of the corner of his eye, saw palm his the steak knife from his lunch.

He said, “uh,” and Cutter leaned back, laughing. The man slid out of the booth and stood over Warren.

“Take care of this,” he said, and then turned and walked away. Daniel watched carefully Warren until he saw him put the knife back on the table.

“We will talk about this. In the car,” said Warren, before Daniel could open his mouth.

\---

They do talk about it. And then Daniel kept talking about it.

“Okay, but you cannot be serious about this,” Daniel said for the third time that week.

Warren gave a long-suffering sigh. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to but I can assure you that I am, in fact, serious about it.”

“Serial killer grades. You get graded on serial killing. You can fail at being a serial killer. And not just by not killing people. Though I guess that’s the easiest way to fail. Alana’s never failed at anything in her life, you know, and she’d fail so badly at this. I want to tell her.”

“That would be a… very bad idea.”

Daniel crossed his arms. “Well you don’t find this half as funny as I do.”

“Daniel, I’m a little disappointed you don’t realize that there is nothing funny about Marcus Cutter.”

“God, that is such a fake name,” Daniel said, rolling his eyes.

“It is,” Warren agreed. “I’ve known him by two other names. But be grateful for that. I don’t imagine learning his real name would go very well for you.”

Daniel shrugged. “Hey, at least I’d finally be dead.”

Warren gave him a pointed look.

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m not saying I want him to kill me or anything, don’t get jealous!” Daniel said quickly, waving his arms.

“I’m not jealous,” Warren said distastefully, as though the very word was both preposterous and deeply painful to even have to utter. And it was true, he wasn’t, but Daniel was willing to bet he could change that. He just didn’t know if the fallout would be worth it. Something to consider.

“I’m just saying,” Daniel said, “this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. Serial killer grades. Kill me.”

“I’m working on it,” Warren said wryly. “And does it occur to you, while we tour the countryside looking for people to murder before I eventually kill you, that you’re really not in a position to call something else ridiculous?”

Daniel nodded, accepting that his life was a little bit ridiculous. “But that also means that when I call something weird it really, really is. And Cutter grading people on killing is weird. Getting grades for how many people killed, how well you avoid falling into a pattern, how stealthy you are…well, it’s still fucking weird but kind of makes sense. Getting graded for how stylish he finds it? Like really? Why do you put up with it?”

“There’s not much of a choice but to ‘put up with it’,” Warren said. “Cutter sends them to every active serial killer. I’ve long-since decided it’s best not to ask where he gets his information from and you can’t stop the mail from coming.”

“Okay, maybe, but you don’t have to actually pay attention to it,” Daniel said. “Why do you care if some asshole who keeps getting bored and inventing new serial killers to be thinks you need to be more original or something?”

“What…” Warren trailed off, started again. “What exactly do you think happens to those who he gives a failing grade?”

“They, uh, are more likely to get caught by the cops? Eternal shame for flunking serial killer school? Getting fired from being a serial killer so they’re forced to get a real job? Literally nothing?”

“Mr. Cutter doesn’t like sloppy workers,” Warren said quietly. “He believes it gives everyone a bad name and makes our work more dangerous. So he kills them.”

Daniel gave a startled laugh. “What, like Dexter?”

“The Serial Slayer is one of his identities, yes,” Warren said.

“The Serial Slayer,” Daniel repeated. “That is so goddamn pretentious. Do you have a serial killer name?”

“Of course not,” Warren said, sounding almost offended.

“Look, I mean, I know they’re super pompous and all but everyone’s got one. What’s your issue with it?” Daniel asked.

“Not everyone has names,” Warren corrected. “Only those who are so careless that the cops realize there is a serial killer operating.”

“And you would never be so sloppy,” Daniel concluded. “Though you said that every time there’s a new serial killer there’s at least a 30% chance that it’s actually just Cutter.”

“That’s hardly an exact number,” Warren said. “And Cutter doesn’t play by the same rules that everyone else does.”

“He’s the one making everyone else play by them! He could at least not be a hypocrite.”

“He could also not be the most prolific serial killer in perhaps all of history,” Warren said. “And yet he is who he is.”

Daniel was silent for a few moments and he could practically feel Warren’s futile hope that this conversation was over. “Do you think he, like, grades himself too?”

“I know he does.”

Daniel’s eyes widened. “Really? This he chooses not to be a hypocrite about? Let me guess, nothing but perfect grades all around?”

“Well honestly I think he’s way too lenient about his stealth scores as he definitely favors style,” Warren said. “But he’s given himself some room for improvement scores in the past. And on some occasions has discussed this in some detail.”

Daniel couldn’t decide if that would be the best conversation ever or the worst but it would definitely be memorable.

“What about his not-groupie friend?” Daniel asked. “Dr. Pryce or whatever?”

Warren pursed his lips. “Daniel—”

He didn’t want to hear it. It didn’t matter what Cutter thought. The man treated serial killers like grade school students. “What’re her grades like?”

Warren cleared her throat. “I believe he gave her a grade once. She did very well, from my understanding. Then she destroyed several of his current aliases and he has not seen fit to evaluate her further.”

Daniel laughed. “Maybe you should try that.”

“I’ll… take it under advisement,” Warren said, smirking.

“Do you think he’ll start giving me grades?” Daniel asked.

“Do you even want him to?”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “If you’re trying to turn this into Questions Only, I swear to God I’m going to do something drastic.”

“You don’t even need an excuse to make terrible decisions, so I don’t think I’ll risk it right now.”

“Well I don’t really want one and I’ll probably be offended by whatever it says but I’m just curious,” Daniel said.

“Maybe one day,” Warren said distantly. “For now, you’re with me.”

“And that’s what’s dragging your score down,” Daniel said. It wasn’t a question.

“Don’t worry about that,” Warren said. “It’s fine. I know what I need to do.”

“If you say so,” Daniel said. He grinned suddenly. “So, uh…”

“Yes?” Warren asked warily.

“If you had to pick a serial killer name—”

“Which I don’t.”

“But if you did. What would it be? Because you can have your own personal serial killer name, you know, and not tell the press you exist or whatever,” Daniel said.

“I could,” Warren agreed. “But that’s unbearably pretentious and there’s no real point in having a name that’s not going to be used.”

“You have to think of something.”

“You have a very interesting understanding of the words ‘have to’,” Warren replied.

“Fine, if you don’t think of one then I’ll think of one for you.”

“By all means.”

“How about ‘the guy who refuses to just bite the bullet and kill his victims already even when they’re begging him to’?” Daniel suggested.

Warren cocked his head. “I don’t think it really rolls off the tongue. Too long.”

“Well until you think of something better, that’s what we’re going with,” Daniel said stubbornly. “The guy who refuses to just bite the bullet and murder his victims despite them literally begging him to.”

“That’s not what you said the first time. See, even you can’t remember it,” Warren pointed out.

“Variations on a theme,” Daniel said. “Work with me here.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Then_

Six months into their absolutely ridiculous and horribly wonderful affair, Daniel and Warren celebrated an honest-to-God anniversary.

It was a perfect evening, really.

Daniel had spent all day dropping increasingly less subtle hints that they had met half a year earlier but Warren hadn’t seemed to notice. That was quite the feat given that Daniel had never been all that talented at subtly. He was torn between definitely not sulking because Warren hadn’t remembered the date and definitely not sulking because Warren wasn’t paying enough attention to him to notice he had all but said, “it’s our six month anniversary.”

Well, sort of six months. Six months since the bar and Daniel had apparently weirded out the serial killer or whatever. He still didn’t quite get Warren’s weird thing about that but they’d moved past that rather nicely. It hadn’t taken Alana that long to find him again. It had almost taken her longer to convince her to give him the information.

Granted, celebrating half-year anniversaries weren’t half as common as celebrating a full year anniversary but, frankly, the thought of still not being dead yet six months down the line was so depressing that Daniel had forcibly pushed it out of his mind and started hinting even more obviously.

Warren hadn’t seemed to notice the date but he had taken him on a stakeout. There was this man who had arrived in town even after they had who was clearly running from his past and never spoke or looked at anyone more than he had to. According to Warren, if he did his job properly no one would even notice he was dead. And so they just had to observe his routine to find the best time to take him.

Daniel had sat in the car with Warren with admittedly ill grace wondering if he was being ridiculous. Six months since Warren hadn’t killed him. Celebrating that might not be so odd except he was celebrating it with Warren and the not dying part wasn’t really the focus. Warren was hardly a romantic, but surely that date had to mean something to him. He had taken Daniel with him, after all. He had let him in on all of this.

Finally, after Daniel was seriously considering attempted murder himself, Warren had admitted that he already had all the information he needed on his next kill. That he had fifty pounds of fireworks in the backseat.

Daniel had set them off in a truly stunning display of pyrotechnics and didn’t ask questions about what Warren must have done to keep the police and fire departments away. He had tried to imagine what it would be like if they were normal and celebrating a normal anniversary. What one-year would be like.

He couldn’t do it, though. At least not for him. Warren Kepler, the man who wanted nothing more than to kill by the literal book and be weirdly graded for it, that was the man he could see being almost normal. Himself? He didn’t belong in that picture.

Maybe that was why he picked the fight.

He didn’t want to ruin the evening. It was everything he had ever wanted and it made him realize he didn’t regret that Warren hadn’t killed him back then. Not anymore.

But the idea just wouldn’t leave him.

Warren noticed that something was off. Of course he did. Sometimes Warren seemed to know him better than he knew himself, even if he couldn’t fully understand. But he also knew that Daniel wasn’t going to open up so he let it be.

Three minutes after midnight, Daniel couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Are you ever going to man up and fucking do it?”

Warren started and looked up from the crossword puzzle he had half-finished. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, are you ever going to man up and fucking do it?”

Warren narrowed his eyes and carefully set down his pen. “I heard you the first time. Would you like to… explain yourself?”

Daniel nodded and his smile felt painfully false. “Sure, if you really need me to spell it out. You are a serial killer. I have a death wish. You promised you’d take care of that for me. Are you ever going to actually make good on that?”

Kepler set his jaw. “I will.”

“When?”

“When I damn good feel like it.” Daniel shook his head and slid out of bed. It wasn’t enough for him. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no?”

“I don’t want you out there alone.” Daniel laughed cruelly.

“Are you kidding me? What, are you afraid I might get hurt? That I might _die_? What kind of murderer are you?”

In an instant, Warren had him backed against the motel wall and an arm at his throat.

“You don’t. Go anywhere. Without me.”

“Or what?” Daniel spit. Warren’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t respond. “That’s what I thought. You _coward_.”

“Say that again,” said Warren, and Daniel had an incredibly bad idea.

“I should just call Cutter to do it,” Daniel sneered, and then Warren shot him in the thigh.

Daniel’s scream was cut off with the arm at his throat, and while Warren dug the hot nozzle of the gun into his skin he used the weight of his body to keep Daniel from falling over. Warren raised the gun and dug it under Daniel’s chin.

“Is this what you want?” He asked and Daniel nodded, shaking. He reached up to grab at Kepler’s arms, but the other man pulled away completely and let Daniel drop to the floor. Warren tossed the gun on the bed and then dragged Daniel’s legs forward so he was flat on his back. Both of them reached for the front of Daniel’s jeans at the same time, but Warren shooed his hands away.

“Where the fuck did you get a gun,” said Daniel, panting. Warren ignored him and pulled hard at the pants, and Daniel wiggled to help him tug them down. He laid back as Warren inspected the wound, and then glanced over to where he could vaguely see the bullet indented in the wall. “It’s in the wall,” he said.

Satisfied, Warren slid back up his body and sat directly on the wound, bracketing Daniel’s legs with his thighs. Daniel opened his mouth and Warren slipped two blood-covered fingers past his lips.

“You don’t get to make decisions here,” he said, as Daniel wrapped his tongue around the digits. “You are here because you are incapable of making decision on your own.” Warren bent over to bite at Daniel’s ear and shoved his fingers farther down Daniel’s throat. “Your life is _mine_.”

Daniel choked and did his best to swallow him down further. He was rock hard and tried to thrust up at Warren, but the other man kept him pinned against the floor. There was this glint in Warren’s eye, the same one he had when he was spilling blood, and Daniel drank in the sight, memorized it until Warren took his hand out and slapped Daniel lightly on the cheek.

“Get in the shower,” he said, and stood up. Daniel pulled himself up to his elbows and snuck a glance at his leg that was still bleeding sluggishly onto the carpet.

“Are you coming? Daniel asked, and Warren just gave him a look.

“I have to clean up your mess first.” Daniel stripped the rest of his clothes off and left them in the hall because he’s already in for a penny, and he hoped that Warren would come into the bathroom to punish him. But he didn’t, so Daniel showered alone, carefully rinsing the wound in his thigh. Pressing the hole from the front with the flat of his palm, he started dragging his other hand up along his leg until Warren called, “don’t touch yourself” from the other room.

Daniel scowled, and turned off the water. He limped out of the tub without bothering to wrap himself in a towel, and dripping, made his way back into the room where Warren waited with antiseptic and bandages.

“Really?” Daniel asked as Warren dabbed a cotton ball on his leg. He doesn’t hiss at the antiseptic, but let himself hold the other’s man’s shoulder for balance. Or, to be perfectly honest, Warren let him.

“This is a reminder. A reminder that doesn’t work if your leg gets infected and I have to leave you at the hospital.” Warren took his time wrapping the bandage around Daniel’s leg, with light fingers that brushed against the injury at every pass, and standing here, naked, with Warren on his knees in front of him, Daniel felt dizzy. Though that might just be the blood loss.

“A reminder of what?” Daniel asked softly. Warren stood suddenly, dislodging Daniel and letting him fall back against the bed. Standing over him in a dark room lit only by a shitty motel lamp, Warren’s eyes seemed to glow, blown out black, and his teeth reflect the light like a goddamn Cheshire Cat. Daniel swallowed his own tongue and had the thought, he’s going to eat me.

Still, Warren’s hands were soft as he cupped Daniel’s face and stroked his thumbs across his cheek.

“That I always keep my promises.”

\---

“He shot you?”

“I was being a brat,” Daniels told her, rolling his eyes. Warren had ditched him at the motel to go get ‘supplies,’ whatever the hell that meant. And apparently Daniel needed to ‘rest’ his leg. So he called Alana to tell her about their anniversary, but she wasn’t taking it the way he’d expected.

“He shot you.”

“I was provoking him. I brought up this guy, Cutter, who’s like, the head serial killer. There’s this whole system, it’s actually hysterical. Anyway, I threatened to run out, so he shot me. I was asking for it. Literally. I didn’t know he had a gun, though. That was a fun surprise.”

“Daniel,” she said, and even though they weren't video chatting, he heard her make a face.

“Oh, don’t make that face.”

“This is my ‘I’m trying not to make that face,’ face.”

“Alana...”

“Do you know what you sound like? ‘Oh he loves me, hurting me is the way he shows his love.’” Daniel frowned and sat up on the bed.

“It’s not like that.”

“Daniel, you sound like my mother,” she said, and it’s rushed, like she didn’t mean to say it, but Daniel waited and there’s no apology.

“I need you to take that back,” he said, and his voice is harder than he expected.

“I am trying _so_ hard Daniel—”

“Alana…”

“—to be happy for you. I hear how happy you are, and I love you, but. I can’t hear you talk about this. Not like this.”

Daniel missed his best friend like the throb of the healing bullet wound in his leg, but he was glad, at this moment, that they weren't on video chat because Alana sounded like she was about to cry. Alana didn’t cry. That was usually his job, when they were watching some stupid movie together or he was just feeling too much at once, too trapped in his body and on this goddamn plane of existence. He tried to remember the things she has told him: that it’s going to be okay, that they’re going to get out their piece of shit town and come back one day to burn it down, and any number of half remembered platitudes he doesn’t remember because he was drunk when she was telling him.

But he couldn’t make himself form the words. He never really believed them anyway.

“Alana,” he said, but she interrupted him

“Tell me about the fireworks again.”

“Fifty pounds of fireworks,” he said wistfully. He told her about setting them off in a residential area, how he and Warren giggled as they left the scene (“ _He giggled, Alana! He denies it, but he totally did_ ”) and how they both smelled like smoke and blasting powder for the rest of the night.

“It’s sounds beautiful.”

“It was.” Daniel hesitated before adding, “Alana, this is it.” He heard her pause again, because she knew what he was really saying. And he knew her, and could hear her struggle to come up with an appropriate response. He tried not to think about how she was treating him as skittish, like if she said the wrong thing she might lose him. Even more, he hated that she might be right.

“Do I get to be your maid of honor?” Daniel laughed.

“Only if you wear a dress.”

“Hard pass.”

“Fine, I’ll wear the dress, and you’ll wear a bitchin’ suit.”

“That sounds better.” He smiled, and hoped she could hear it through the phone. The walls of the motel were paper thin, so he heard the gravel crunch as Warren pulled the car back into the lot. He hadn’t been waiting by the window to see him come up. Whatever.

“Oh!” He said, “Warren’s back. Talk soon, okay?”

“Dan—” she said, but he hung up before she can finish the thought. He wasn’t angry with her, but he didn’t think he would call her back for a while. Not until there was something interesting to tell her, at least.

\---

_Now_

“Long story short? That’s why you need two people to rob a Wendy’s.”

“Two people,” she says, and Kepler blinks back at her.

“Two people.”

“So, you.” She doesn’t know how to phrase this. She’s sure that every one of their conversations are sent back to DC, and while she’s almost hacked into the prison system, she’s not sure she can delete a recording without showing her hand. Instead, Alana looks down her row at a crying woman with her hand pressed against the barrier, and nods her head for Kepler to follow. He looks over for the briefest of moments, then back at her.

“Yes,” he says, and his nostrils flare.

“Then how—” She stops short. Alana squeezes her empty fist and taps it against the counter, nearly vibrating out of her seat. _If you loved him, how could you do that to him?_ Kepler eyes are hard, and he leans close to the plastic wall between them. There’s a moment where she thinks he might reach through the barrier and lunge across at her, and she finally sees the man that Daniel had known, beyond the cheerful exterior. He stays fixed on her, eyes narrowed, and then jerks his head to the side, back at the weeping woman. Alana looks over but the image is still the same, and she wishes she was better with this, with people, wishes they could speak freely to each other, express the anger that’s curled inside them both.

Kepler grins, short and sharp, and she gets it. She gets it.

He’s asking her the same question. “ _Oh_ ,” she thinks.

They sit in silence for the last ten minutes, but neither of them puts the phone down, just staring at each other and sharing breath across the receiver. Back at her car, Alana laughs, an uncontrollable barking that leaves her heaving.

_If you loved him, how could you do that to him?_ She has no idea. Sure, it was Kepler who ultimately killed him, but it was her that sent Daniel back to him. To his death. Did Kepler even love him? He claims to, and Daniel certainly believed it, but he still killed him. He killed him.

_If you loved him, how could you do that to him?_

And yet. The look on his face when he reflects the question back at her, the fury in his eyes.

_He’s just as miserable as I am_ , she thinks, and it’s another five minutes before her hands stop shaking enough of her to drive home.

It’s a week later, when her decryption still hasn’t broken through the prison, that she realizes she might need some help.

“A-absolutely not,” Hera hisses over the phone. “How did you even get this number?”

“I—”

“Dumb question... You’re a hacker.”

“So are you,” says Alana, leaning back in her chair. She’d known “Hera” for a while through a few forums, but didn’t imagine that was the woman’s real name. Or that she was actually a woman.

“I work for the NSA, how do you know this phone isn’t b-bugged?” Alana rolls her eyes. “Another dumb question, I know. Of course I have an extra phone they don’t know about. Three of them, actually. What I want to know, is why you couldn’t ask me this over chat!”

“Would you have said yes?”

“ _No_!”

“And you would have just blocked me, or turned off the notifications. But you haven’t hung up on me yet, so there’s a part of you, even the smallest, that wants to help me.” Alana sighs and rubs her temple. Her headaches have been getting worse, and she sniffs the mug of coffee at her desk, trying to remember when she poured it. “Look, Hera… I need your help. You’re the only one that I can trust with this.”

“R-really?”

“We’re friends right? This is the kind of thing that friends help each other out with.” Hera laughs nervously.

“I don’t think normal friends help friends hack into federal prisons.” Alana doesn’t say anything, just waits, holding her breath. “It would have to be incredibly subtle…” Hera muses, and Alana hears her start to type over the phone. “A DDoS would send them into a panic, but if anyone who worked there would open a phish…”

“Hera—”

“What are you p-planning to do?” Alana hesitates, and it’s only then she realizes what she’s planning to do.

“Someone there—hurt someone very important to me. I just want to be able to talk to them without anyone else listening in.” It’s not entirely a lie. Preventing anyone from listening is a part of the plan that she is making up, at this very moment.

“Okay,” Hera says softly. “I’ll write something up for you but— please be careful.”

“I will,” says Alana. That part’s a lie.

\---

_Then_

Daniel misses their scheduled call.

It’s fine. She doesn’t worry at first (lies, she’s always worrying,) but more than likely Kepler is keeping him busy (as much as she hates to think about whatever that might mean), but by the end of the third day she panics. Alana digs deep into the web, for any possible trace of them, and spends nearly a week searching, hacking into rural police stations and four different security companies.

But there’s nothing, at least nothing she can make sense of. After forty hours days with only coffee and peanut butter right from the jar, she falls asleep at her desk.

She wakes up with her face smashed into her laptop, a command window with gibberish from her face blinking back at her. Alana clicks through her news alerts, checks her email (nothing,) and then begrudgingly drags herself to the bathroom to pee.

It’s on the way back that she finds her phone abandoned in the pants she left on the ground, and the message notification from an unknown number.

She doesn’t remember anything else for a while.

Some time later, when Alana finally sits back from her computer, there's a woman in a suit and a tight ponytail standing near the door to her bedroom with a gun pointed at her. Her ears are ringing too much to understand what the woman is saying, so she just blinks up at her.

"—me your hands," says the woman, and Alana does her best to uncurl her stiff fingers. The woman takes a few steps into the room and keeps the gun raised at Alana's center.

"I think he’s dead," Alana says. Her mouth is dry and her tongue feels thick and heavy, but other than that she's not entirely sure she's here right now.

"Who’s dead?"

"Daniel," she says, and her voice doesn't crack. "I think he. He finally did it. He left me a voicemail, but I wasn’t able to track it back, and now he won’t call me back. He’s bad at calling me back, but now I think he can’t." The woman lowers her gun towards the floor and relaxes her shoulders.

"What’s your name?"

"Alana."

"Hi, Alana. I'm Agent Renée Minkowski. Are you aware that hacking into the FBI is illegal?" Alana yawns and suddenly realizes she isn't wearing any pants, only an old t-shirt that she thinks she took from Daniel's closet.

"I hacked into the FBI?"

"Well, someone from this address. Is there some else who—"

"No, that sounds like me."

"Possibly Homeland Security too, but they won’t confirm that with us. Interdepartmental rivalry, you know."

"Oh." The agent holsters her gun and pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

"Okay. Well. You’re under arrest." Alana's computer starts beeping, and Minkowski's hands go back for her gun. "What’s that?"

"Hm?" She turns back around in her chair and squints at the message flashing on the screen. "Oh.” She says in surprise. “I found him."

"Who? Your friend?" Agent Minkowski hovers at her right side and peeks over at the computer.

Maybe, she thinks. "No. Warren Kepler."

"Who’s Warren Kepler?" Alana pushes the laptop over for the agent to take a better look. Alana yawns again. "Holy— excuse me for one second." Minkowski takes out her phone and goes to stand near the door. Alana stumbles out of her chair and finds her pants draped over her mattress. Her blankets are on the floor in a uncoordinated pile. She doesn’t see her phone anywhere.

“What day is it?” She calls out to Minkowski, who gives her the ‘I’m on the phone’ finger.

“Yes, sir. I will,” she says, and then hangs up the phone. “What was that?”

“What day is it?”

“The fifteenth.” Alana must looks lost, because she adds, “of March.” Alana stumbles back against the bed. It was nearly a month since she lost contact with Jacobi. “Whoa, are you alright?”

There’s a tightness in her stomach that isn’t all hunger, a buzzing in her ears, and an incredible sharp pulse along her neck and spine. She still isn’t wearing any pants, and her best friend is dead.

“You said you were going to arrest me?”

“Change of plans,” says Minkowski.

She still ends up in an interrogation room, but no one puts any handcuffs on her. It looks exactly like the ones she’s seen on TV, and Agent Minkowski lays out what she quickly realizes is Warren Kepler’s “file” on the long metal table.

“Do you have my computer?” She asks the agent. Minkowski shakes her head.

“Tell everything you know about the man you’re calling “Warren Kepler.”

“He kills people,” she says. “And I _found him_ , so you should take care of that. Go get them.”

“Who’s them?” Alana closes her eyes. Her head feels like it’s full of lead, and she can’t stop shaking.

“Him and Daniel,” she says, and then she tells Minkowski everything.

It should feel freeing, but she just feels sick with it, and she feels like she’s out of her body, watching herself tell the story from the corner of the room. At the table Alana’s eyes are still closed, but she watches Minkowski silently taking notes, listens to her interject only to get clarification. There’s not a single judgmental look on the agent’s face, and Alana is grateful.

She has no idea how long it takes, but when Alana comes back to herself she’s in a hospital.

Later, she learns that even nearly unconscious, she tried to strangle a nurse with her own IV and had to be placed in a medical coma for the dehydration, sleep deprivation, and “shitty diet,” as Minkowski later puts it, she put herself through. She’s out for three days, and when she wakes up they’ve caught Kepler.

Just Kepler.

\---

_Now_

“Boise,” she says as soon as Kepler picks up the phone.

“I’m sorry?”

“Boise. That was the last one before. Before, everything. Someone called the police on you in Boise.”

“Dr. Maxwell—”

“I think was that guy— Mr. Cutter. Daniel mentioned him once, and I didn’t make the connection at first when he was here, but Daniel said there was a guy who was. That didn’t like him, or him and you together, and— I think it was him. In Boise.”

“ _Dr. Maxwell._ ”

“It’s okay, they can’t hear us, but only for the next two minutes. You were— I didn’t understand it before, but you were stalling. It was a year. You stalled him for a year.” She’s rushing to get it all out, say everything that needs to be said, and her chest hurts with it.

“Until Boise.”

“Until Boise.” Kepler lets out a long breath.

“I wasn’t sure—”

“I got a copy of the 911 call. It’s him.”

“They can’t hear us right now?”

“Yes. Just a minute longer, so you need to listen. I’ve made preparations. You just need to be ready for my signal.”

“Signal?”

“ _Shut up._ It’ll be—”

“Excuse me, Dr. Maxwell?” The guard, Eiffel, comes up behind her shoulder. “There’s a problem with the phones. Do you mind stepping back for a minute?” Alana smiles and places the phone back in its cradle, watching Kepler carefully.

“Of course.” She stands and sees that the other visitors have also taken a step back, though no other guards are hovering by them.

“Not to eavesdrop, but, uh,” and Alana thinks, _shit_. “Did you really just tell him to shut up?”

“Oh. I guess so. I think I’m getting tired of his stories.” Eiffel laughs.

“They are weird, aren’t they? I’ve heard that other prisoners complain about how he doesn’t shut up. No one does anything through—I think they’re honestly afraid of him.”

“Mmhm.” Alana leans against the back wall and closes her eyes. She’s not worried that they caught this part. She knew they would, but she had hoped to have another minute to explain the plan.

“Look, it’s really not my place, but…” Alana opens her eyes and looks over at Eiffel, who honestly looks embarrassed. She smiles at him, and he relaxes.

“Why do I come here?”

“Yeah.” Alana glances back at Kepler, who is doing his best to look like he isn’t watching them.

“He killed a friend of mine. I guess I’m just looking to understand it all.”

“Are you? Understanding it, that is?”

“I’m getting there,” she says.

\---

Two hours after Alana officially becomes a fugitive (Hostage? Accomplice? Who knows what the official story is) she loses the silent battle of wills she has been having with Kepler and breaks the silence. That bastard, strangely, seems perfectly at ease while she only grows more on edge as every silent mile passes.

“Where are we going?” She is driving the grey pick-up truck because she doesn’t know what she is even doing breaking anyone out of federal custody, let alone a convicted serial killer, but she’ll be damned if she gives him enough control to allow him to drive.

“To pay our respects to Daniel,” Kepler says simply.

Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “I can’t get us to him if you won’t tell me where we’re going.”

“I _am_ telling you,” Kepler says calmly. “Take a left in at the next exit.”

Gritting her teeth, Alana does so. “You can’t just tell me only two minutes ahead this entire trip.”

“I don’t very well have a choice about that,” Kepler says. “If I tell you where he is you won’t need me anymore and, since you started us on this path, I think I’d quite like to see it through to its conclusion.”

‘I don’t need you’, Alana is tempted to snap, but the truth is that she does or she never would have gone this far. There is no coming back from this. She knows this and yet she needs answers and Warren fucking Kepler didn’t look like he was about to give anybody any.

“What did you do to him?” she asks.

Kepler raises an eyebrow. “You know very well what I did. I killed him.”

“I need to know what happened,” she says. “Did it hurt? Did he suffer? I keep picturing his last moments in my head but the thing is I don’t even know what I’m picturing. Did you shoot him? Suffocate him? Strangle him? Set him on fire? I know you usually worked with a knife but not always and Daniel was different anyway.”

Kepler says nothing.

Alana angrily jerks the wheel. “No. You fucking tell me. You killed my best friend and you at least owe me the knowledge of what you did.”

“I owe you nothing,” he says, clipped and cold.

“I brought you out here,” Alana argues. “You never would have seen the light of day otherwise.”

“Am I supposed to thank you for this great favor when you’ve made it clear you need me? What happened between him and me was private and you don’t get to intrude.”

“Intr— INTRUDE?” Alana slams the car to a stop, vaguely glad there aren’t any other cars on the road. She ignores the jerk forward and the glare Kepler sends her way for his own jostling. “You sick fuck. You killed him, and now you have the gall to call it some intimate moment? I love him and I deserve to know.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Kepler’s voice is clipped, and he continues looking ahead. “You couldn’t. You could never be a part of what we experienced together, so all the words in the world wouldn’t help there.”

“I’m not asking to be a part of your sick and twisted murder fairytale, I just want to know how he died!”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Kepler says bluntly. Is that… is that a reference to Family Guy? She can’t decide if she is surprised about that and that disturbs her more than anything.

She squeezes her eyes shut for as long as she feels is safe before reopening them. “Why did you even become a serial killer in the first place? What do you get out of this? Sex isn’t always involved. There’s no one kind of target. You don’t rob them. You’re way too careful for it to be something you can’t help. Why did you even go into that bar that night?”

Kepler is silent for a moment. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was trapped in an elevator with a three-year-old and a pregnant woman and had to deliver her twins? She named both of them after me, you know. Little Warren and James. I wonder how they’re doing. You see, I was up in Seattle and I—”

Alana can’t listen to another word. “Are you even fucking kidding me right now? This isn’t some game for the cameras. There is no one else watching, no one here but us. You can give me a goddamn straight answer.”

A flash of annoyance and something darker in his eyes.

Alana doesn’t so much as flinch. She would never actually do it, or so she is pretty sure, but she has the feeling she wants to kill this man a lot more than he can ever possibly want to kill her.

“Do you imagine this is easy?” he asks, voice deceptively soft. “I was with him for a year and know him far more intimately than you ever could. You cast your judgments, and that’s fine but don’t imagine they hold any weight with me.”

“I don’t need you to care, I just need you to give me fucking something without a million layers of your fucking bullshit,” Alana snaps. “You loved him. I know you loved him. Daniel was certain of it and he took so long to accept that people could care about him that by the time it dawned on him that someone might they were pretty fucking gone. And I’ve seen it, too. So tell me how you could have possibly killed him? I don’t care if it was what he wanted, you still did it. That was your choice. And don’t you dare turn this around on me. I’m not the one who pulled the trigger or lit the match or whatever the fuck you even did to him!”

“You sent him to me. You knew what I was.”

Her throat feels dry. “It’s not the same.”

“No, of course not. I met a man at a bar and I left him alive. Then you sent him careening into my path. I would have left and never thought twice about it and now we’re both here and Daniel is dead and how can I not turn it back on you when you’re the one who set the stage? I’m a killer. I killed. You were supposed to be his friend. You were supposed to keep him away from the things that go bump in the night. Even if I hadn’t killed him, once he came back to me there was never any escape for him.”

She stares at him in silent disgust for a moment before pressing her foot on the gas pedal and continuing on the road. “You’re a monster.”

Kepler looks almost pleased.

She considers saying something else, yelling at him some more, but decides against it. It is just going to exhaust her and he is never going to properly feel it. She can’t afford to not be thinking clearly around this man.

She is still fighting the urge to yell at him some more, if only to make herself feel better, when her phone buzzes. Not her usual phone that she had left behind because it is too easy to trace or the burner phone she had purchased for this little road trip, but the phone she has for some of her more illicit activities. The number is blocked, but she has a feeling who is on the other end.

“Hello?” She asks.

“Talking on the phone while driving,” Kepler says, insincere disappointment dripping from his voice. “And not even a headset. It’s good to know how important you consider our lives.”

“Alana, what did you d-do?” Hera whisper-shrieks. Alana feels a twinge of guilt in her gut for using Hera to help her break Kepler out and not doing her the decency of telling her. But it is too risky. Two people can keep a secret only if one of them is dead and she knows that Hera, for all her dark net connections, would never agree to this.

“It’s not important. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” Hera asks incredulously. “Alana, you’re on the news! They’re acting like you’re a hostage, but you picked up the phone so clearly that’s not true. You broke someone out of prison? Someone who kills people? And you used me to do it? What if they trace it back to me? I could lose my j-job! I could go to jail!”

“I have it under control,” Alana says flatly, pointedly ignoring Kepler’s curious glance.

“I would really like to believe that, Alana, but you’re on the run with a guy who killed like three dozen people,” Hera says. “I mean, I’m sure you already know that but I just think it bears repeating!”

“I know what I’m doing,” Alana says, hoping against hope that that is true. She doesn’t want to be just another unsolved mystery for the people in her life. She doesn’t want to follow Daniel that far into the dark.

“That’s what you told me before.”

“I know.”

“Y-you said we were friends, Alana. Was that a lie too?” The twinge of guilt digs a little deeper.

“No, it’s not. I— I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. Things are just… really complicated right now. But I’ve planned this out. One day I’ll tell you the whole story. Trust me.”

Hera laughs bitterly. “I’d love to believe that, Alana, but I t-trusted you and you betrayed me. Because that’s what it’s called when you use someone to pull something like this without either their knowledge or consent. You betrayed me.”

“I’m sorry,” Alana says again.

“Are you? Really?”

Alana can’t even bring herself to lie. Hera would be able to see right through that. “I won’t need to involve you again, don’t worry. And when this is done I’ll answer for everything I’ve done.”

Hera sighs heavily. “I just hope it’s worth it, Alana.”

Alana spares a glance at Kepler who is now intently studying a map. “Yeah. Me too.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Then_

The girl was seventeen and looked like Alana.

Daniel couldn’t say he really liked Warren’s idea of the first person he was to kill by himself, but he knew how important it was to avoid having a pattern in the victims.

She was just a little shop girl from a family-run place in Boise, Idaho and no one on her block so much as locked their doors. They would now, he was sure.

“You are ready for this,” Warren said, a strange sort of urgency in his voice. He had been really pressuring Daniel into increasing his participation in his kills which was… fine but he hadn’t really considered killing on his own. And he could almost see Alana staring out of the girl’s eyes.

“It’s easy,” Warren said coaxingly. “It doesn’t matter how you do it. It can be quick, even. One little stab or run the blade across her throat. You don’t have to be perfect the first time, you just need to get through it.”

“Please,” the girl managed to sob. “I want to go home.”

Warren saw the conflict in his eyes. “I can get a gag. There’s no need to make this difficult for you.”

“I’m fine,” Daniel said, even though his hand was starting to cramp around the knife. It wasn’t as though he had never found himself in a room with Warren and a soon-to-be corpse before. It was just different this time. He stared dumbly at the knife in his hands.

Warren came up behind him and put his arms on his. “It’s easy,” he whispered, breath hot on his ear. “Like this.” He moved Daniel’s hands closer to the girl, securely strapped to a table.

Daniel shivered, and as Warren stepped back he began tracing patterns on her shirt, still light enough to not draw blood though the girl whimpered anyway. He was going to do this. He was going to become a killer, all on his own, then a serial killer, and then… well, one day he would be here on that table. He wasn’t jealous, exactly, but he would have preferred to be in this girl’s place.

“Come on now,” Warren encouraged him.

Daniel took a deep breath and plunged the knife into her shoulder, startling a bit as the girl screamed.

“Good, very good,” Warren said. Daniel turned to look at him and his eyes were dark and pleased. “The next cut is easier. And the next and the next and the next.”

Daniel couldn’t possibly think three cuts ahead right now. He cut a thin line into her cheek, watching dispassionately as the blood began to trickle out. He really should have planned this out better. Warren always had a plan, but Warren wanted him to do this on his own for some reason.

He was just considering if he wanted to go for symmetry with a cheek cut on the other side or with a stab to the other soldier when sirens rang through the night.

Warren’s eyes widened.

“Is it—” Daniel started to ask.

“We can’t risk it,” Warren said. “Finish up here and let’s go. Now.”

Daniel didn’t say anything and he didn’t know what the look on his face was but Warren sighed and fetched the gag. He handed it to Daniel.

Daniel quickly stuffed the gag into the girl’s mouth then followed Warren out the door.

They drove right past the cops closing in on where the girl was. There hadn’t been any loud noises to attract attention and they clearly knew exactly where they were going.

“Did someone just call the cops on us?” Daniel asked, mystified. That had never happened before. And who even would? Or could?

But Warren didn’t answer. He didn’t say a single word for hours even when they had returned to their room for the night.

Finally, he looked straight at Daniel and said, “I’m going to have to kill you.”

Daniel laughed. He couldn't help it. Warren just looked so solemn he had thought that something was really wrong. “Fucking finally.”

“Daniel, I mean it.”

“Good. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? It’s been a fucking year.”

“Someone tipped the cops off, and now we need to move up the timeline,” Warren said.

“And now you need to kill me because of it,” Daniel said. “Oh my God, I knew you weren’t going to do it!”

“I’m going to kill you,” Warren said simply.

“I’ve heard that before,” Daniel said flippantly. But something about this situation felt different. This time he felt Warren was actually going to do it. It took him a moment to realize that he was smiling.

“All this time,” Warren said quietly. “All this time and you’re still so eager for it.”

“You just said that you have to kill me,” Daniel said. “Do you really want me to beg you not to? I mean, I know you get off on that kind of thing from others but-”

“No,” Warren interrupted. “I really wouldn’t.”

“So when are you going to do it?” Daniel asked. “Tonight? Tomorrow?”

“I… soon.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “You always give me that. Well what kind of ‘soon’ is twelve freaking months?”

“Sooner than that. Much sooner. But I need to plan. Do you have any preferences?”

Daniel grinned. “Surprise me?”

“Do you really not have any regrets?” Warren asked suddenly. “One year later and you still want the exact same thing?”

Daniel sighed heavily. “Not the exact same thing. It’ll mean more now. And of course I have regrets. I haven’t talked to Alana in weeks and I never did see her again after I found you. But do I regret choosing this? Of course not. And I’m sorry if it’s not what you want to hear, even though it looks like this is probably going to happen whether I like it or not now, but you knew who I was when you refused to kill me the first two times.”

“We have some time,” Warren said eventually.

“A very little amount of time,” Daniel amended. “Like maybe a week.”

Warren nodded. “A week then. Let’s make it count.”

\---

_Now_

“Turn left and then take the first right,” Kepler says.

Alana does as she is told, mentally trying to calculate how much further to travel that day before stopping for the night.

“Stop,” Kepler says eventually.

Alana automatically does so before blinking confusedly and turning to him. “Stop? In the middle of a field?”

“We’re here,” Kepler says simply.

The words take a moment to process. They are here. After all these days they have finally reached their destination.

Wordlessly, Alana gets out of the dark blue minivan, barely remembering to turn the car off first. She follows Kepler as he walks some distance until they get to a stream and he kneels by a smooth, flat rock. He closes his eyes and places his hand on it. After a few moments, he stands and begins to dig.

Alana swallows hard and wraps her arms around herself. For all that she has said she wants to know what had happened, for all that she has done to bring them to this point, suddenly she doesn’t know if she can stand to see Daniel’s decomposing body.

But she stands her ground. She will not be a coward and turn from this.

Eventually, Kepler stops digging and pulls out a container.

Alana moves closer to get a better look. “Is that… Tupperware?”

“I bought it at Target,” Kepler says. “It’s not biodegradable.”

“You put Daniel’s ashes. In Tupperware.”

“Would you have preferred me to bury an urn?” he asks.

She just stares at the container in his hands.

Kepler sighs. “When it was over, I set a fire. Daniel gave me detailed instructions because he was always so convinced he knew better than anyone when it came to explosions. I needed to destroy the evidence and lugging around a corpse would have been foolish to the point of suicidal.”

“You took him with you,” Alana says quietly.

“I did.”

“Can I…?” Alana reaches out, but pulls back at the last second.

“What? Oh, of course,” Kepler says, handing her the earthly remains of her best friend. She brushes a bit of dirt off the side and then lets it sit in her hands. She doesn’t expect it to be so light.

“I held a funeral for him while you were waiting for trial,” Alana says. “No body, of course. It was just— normal. Like they always show on TV, at least. For all he wouldn’t stop obsessing about his own death, he never did have a plan for what came after.”

“Of course not,” Kepler says. “Then he’d have to think about the people he left behind and what losing him would mean. I… did hear about the funeral. From Cutter, of course. He sent pictures.”

Alana shivers. She’d have noticed if he had come personally, wouldn’t she have? She can’t guarantee it. It was just so hard to focus on anything that day but willing herself to stay in the moment and not yell or cry or enact acts of violence on the Jacobis.

“I had plans for the ashes,” Alana says. “Have plans. I didn’t know you’d already cremated him but that probably works better. It’s supposed to be crazy expensive.”

“Plans?” Kepler prompts when she doesn’t continue.

“There’s this place that can arrange for ashes to be embedded into a fireworks display. There's different kinds of displays, too. Anywhere from one big firework and twenty small fireworks to an eighteen minute firework. They claim the seven minute one is similar to at a real event so I can only imagine how amazing the eighteen minute one would be.”

“He would love that.”

“It’s got to be, like, crazy expensive but I promised myself one day I would do this for him,” Alana says. She laughs sadly. “I actually found out about this right after the last time I spoke to him. I was going to tell him about it because I knew he’d get so excited about it and make me promise I’d do it for him. I, uh, didn’t get a chance to tell him, but I can still do this.”

“You should,” Kepler says. “It’s a fitting end to this story.”

“And is it?” Alana asks. “The end to this story?”

“What do you mean?” Kepler asks carefully.

“What do you intend to do after this?” Alana asks. “We both know that I can’t manhandle you back to jail. I’ll probably be able to find you again but that’ll still give you some time. And I never thought you’d go back willingly.” She pauses and bites her lip. “Also, I don’t want to die. I feel like I need to be clear about that. And I did break you out of jail, so I would appreciate if, you know. You didn’t do that.”

Kepler is quiet for a long time.

“You could just make something up, you know,” Alana says, feeling awkward. ”You always make things up. And if it were convincing enough I doubt I’d even know the difference.”

“Dr. Maxwell,” he finally says, sounding almost uncertain. “I do believe that I owe you an apology.”

“For killing Daniel?” she asks, wondering what her life has come to that she is standing in a field, holding Daniel’s Tupperware urn, and hearing this from his killer.

But Kepler shakes his head. “Not for that. But I’ve done you a disservice nonetheless.”

“Oh?”

“For the longest time, I blamed you for this. Yes, I killed him. Yes, Daniel asked me every goddamn day. But I blamed you. You and—” He cuts himself off.

“Because I led him to you,” Alana says, smiling sadly.

“You did,” Kepler says. “But I think I’m starting to realize that this was never your doing.”

Alana isn’t sure she hears him correctly. “It wasn’t?”

“It was what Daniel wanted,” Kepler says. “And I know just as well as you that he could be very persuasive.”

Alana shakes her head. “Still. If I hadn’t—”

“Maybe he wouldn’t have found me,” Kepler interrupts. “But it wasn’t about me. Not at the beginning. I was just a convenient way to end it all. He would have found a way. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I… It’s not enough to… I can’t say that you weren’t the one who killed him because you literally did,” Alana says. “But I think you’re right about one thing. You’re responsible for so many deaths, so many horrible things… but I think maybe it’s time I let Daniel own his own choices. You killed him but it wasn’t any less than what he needed from you. If not you he would have found another way.”

Kepler hesitates. “I…”

“What?” Alana asks. A thought occurs to her. “You said that you killed Daniel and he asked you to. You said you blamed me and someone else but now you were absolving me. Who else do you hold responsible here?”

“Cutter,” Kepler says. “I’m going after Cutter.”

Alana isn’t fool enough to think she knows everything Kepler knows about Cutter. Not even close. But she knows enough. “That’s suicide.”

“I very much doubt I will return to prison,” Kepler says. “It’s better that way.”

“Cutter called the police back then,” Alana says.

“He disapproved of Daniel’s presence. Called him a groupie,” Kepler almost sounds pained. “There wasn’t much of a choice unless I wanted Cutter to step in and even Daniel wasn’t looking to be killed by a man such as that. So I am going to find Cutter, and I am going to kill him. You could even call it a good act given everything he has done.”

Alana shakes her head. “No, you’re not going to. We are going to.”

Kepler looks at her steadily. “Are you certain? You have a great deal more to live for than I do. You have those fireworks to set. And while I would never disparage your skills, Dr. Maxwell, I do not imagine that your accompanying me will change the odds. If you come with me, you will die.”

Alana looks down at Daniel’s ashes, and sighs.

“Turn around for a second.”

“What?”

“Just…” Alana takes one hand off of the Tupperware and waves it. Kepler raises an eyebrow, but acquiesces. “And plug your ears.” After she watches Kepler put his hands over his ears, she raises Daniel’s ashes up to her face.

“ _You fucking idiot I am so mad at you right now_ ,” she hisses at him. “ _I am standing in the middle of nowhere with your fucking murderer slash boyfriend, who I broke out of jail, and it’s all your fucking fault. Also, Valentine’s Day? Seriously?_ ” The ashes do not respond. “Typical,” she mutters and then marches around to face Kepler.

“Will we be able to kill Cutter before I die?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said I’ll die if I come. But can we kill Cutter first?”

“Dr. Maxwell—”

“It’s been a weird two years, and I’m holding my best friend in a blue Tupperware. So. Fuck it. I want my goddamn closure.”

Kepler is quiet, considering her. Alana knows that if he decides not to let her come there isn’t realistically all that much she can do about it. He could physically overpower her or duck out one day when she is distracted. She has no doubt she can find him again but whether that is in time to find Cutter? There is no way to be sure.

“I think you were right, Dr. Maxwell,” he says.

“I was?”

“Yes. This is a much more fitting end to this story.” Alana lets out the breath she has been holding, but also can’t help but roll her eyes.

“Do you have any idea how to even find Cutter?” she asks.

“No,” Kepler says. “But we’re two very intelligent and capable people and his body count is quite… something. I’m sure that we’ll be able to figure something out.”

\---

The woman standing in front of the empty elementary school holding a machete and a blood-soaked fruitcake looks like the world’s most efficient personal assistant. Alana has no doubt that this woman could kill her twenty different ways without really trying but she is also certainly not Cutter. She does have a middle-aged man tied up and bleeding profusely from the head a few feet to the left.

Kepler is buzzing with hostility and condescension beside her. “Miss Young.”

She smiles pleasantly at him. “Please, Warren, it’s Rachel! No need for formalities in our line of work. Well, except for Mr. Cutter but that’s just a generational thing, really.”

“We’re not _colleagues_ ,” Kepler spits.

“Oh, don’t be such a snob. I’d ask who your friend is but I’ve been following the sad story of your two solid years of fuck-ups,” Young says. “Dr. Alana Maxwell. I do wonder if you know what you’ve just gotten yourself into.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Alana says. “Where’s Cutter?”

Rachel laughs. “Cutter? Is that why you’re here?”

Of course it is. They have spent days pouring over recent killings in the continental United States before they’d found what they thought was Cutter.

“Fruitcakes,” Kepler had said, “it has to be him. He’d have found that hilarious.”

And so they trace the string of fruitcake slayings to a small town in Ohio. It is the fourth town they check, which is only to be expected given that everyone in Cutter’s creepy little murder cycle follows the manual.

“You don’t think I came to see you, do you? Miss Young?”

“I don’t know whether I should take the compliment that my work is indistinguishable from his or laugh at how sad it is that you came all this way and you didn’t even find the one you’re looking for,” Young says. “Or can I do both? Yes, I think I’ll go with both.”

Kepler narrows his eyes. “Maybe there wouldn’t have been this confusion if you weren’t ripping off Cutter’s aliases. What’s wrong, not creative enough to form your own?”

Young’s smile turns a shade harder. “Oh, Warren, you know Mr. Cutter can only be in so many places at once and there are always more people to kill. I choose some of his more interesting or least-utilized identities and contribute to the cause. Why create my own when these work so well?”

“I have no idea how you’ve managed to pass even one of your evaluations,” Kepler says.

“And you would know, wouldn’t you? I don’t think it’s possible to nearly fail by more than you did that one month without actually failing,” Young says. “Forgive me if I don’t take my cues from you. They didn’t even know you were a serial killer until you went and got all cozy with your victim and Dr. Maxwell here got mad.”

“Not having people know me and hunt me is the entire point,” Kepler says. “It keeps the authorities away.”

Young laughs. “Wonderful job of it. I take it this is a prison release program?”

“I had hoped to find Cutter here,” Kepler says, pulling out a long knife. Startled and unsure where he got it from, Alana takes a step back. “But I will enjoy killing you instead. I had always hoped that I would get a chance to.”

“Hope is the last refuge of a desperate fool,” Young says dismissively. She gingerly sets the fruitcake on the ground and pulls out a second machete.

Alana doesn’t know whether to be afraid or annoyed at this ridiculous serial killer posturing. “What are you two even doing? We don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“I think you’ll find,” Young says, glancing her way, “that we have all the time in the world.”

“Kepler,” Alana says pointedly.

He sighs. “I know, I know, but Cutter’s not here. Maybe Miss Young will be able to lead us to him.”

“You just want to kill her!”

Kepler blinks. “Well, yes… I am a murderer, Dr. Maxwell. You always knew this about me.”

Young laughs. “As if I would ever tell you where to find him. It wouldn't matter if I did because to find him is to die but I really just can’t stand the thought of helping you in any way. Not even helping you to die.”

Alana can’t resist butting in. “So does that mean you’re not going to be killing us then?”

Young narrows her eyes. “Oh, I think I’ll find it within myself to—”

“Now, now, Rachel. I appreciate the loyalty but I think I can take it from here.”

A heartbeat before Alana consciously recognizes the voice, her body reacts. Fear floods through her and her breathing grows shallow.

“Mr. Cutter, sir,” Young says deferentially. “Of course. I was intending to leave the body here, but if you like I can get it out of your way.”

Cutter smiles brightly at her. “Oh, how thoughtful, Rachel. Quite unnecessary, though. I’m sure we will manage just fine. Fetch me the tarp from my car, will you?”

“Of course,” Young says, walking briskly away. She returns in a few moments, carrying a tarp and gently laying it on the ground.

When Alana glances over at Cutter again, he has a gun out and is pointing it directly at her.

“Thank you, Rachel. I will see you later.”

Young nods once more and leaves.

Cutter gestures with his gun to the tarp and, reluctantly, Kepler and Alana step onto it.

“Warren, I want you to know how disappointed I am in you,” Cutter says. “You had so much potential! But once again, you take a little friend and you don’t kill them and now I have to step in. Once was bad enough but at this point it’s starting to get unprofessional.”

“Mr. Cutter, I…” Kepler trails off, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

“Oh, it’s quite alright, Warren. Take all the time you need to justify yourself. I’m just itching to hear it,” Cutter says. “And as for you, Dr. Maxwell, there are no words for how truly stupid your behavior for the past year has been. Or should I say two since I understand you were the one to send dear Daniel to Warren here. I guess it’s true what they say. PhDs aren’t everything. Miranda would be appalled.”

Alana hasn’t had as solid of a plan as she would have liked when she’d set off chasing Cutter all those weeks ago. She doesn’t know if she has it in her to be a killer, even when facing down this monster who had started it all. And neither she or Kepler have really been able to imagine the idea of them actually getting the chance to kill him.

But now, she gets the terrible feeling that this plan is going completely off the rails.

\---

Alana is somewhat surprised she has been in Cutter’s presence for a full eighteen minutes and she is still breathing. Something tells her that doesn’t happen often, not when that monster is smiling like that. Like a man who has just had a cute dog stray across his path, this man will be her undoing every bit as much as he had ultimately been Daniel’s.

“Warren, I hope you kn—“ Cutter stops suddenly, his head jerking back. He glances down, brow furrowing. “Harpoon?” He blinks a few times, confused, before sinking to his knees and falling face-forward onto his very own tarp.

Alana’s brain takes a moment to process what has just happened. Cutter isn’t killing them. Cutter has just been killed or is at least about to be as she is not leaving before she finishes what she has come here to do. And a harpoon has appeared out of nowhere in his chest. An honest to God harpoon.

Does that make Cutter Moby Dick? The name is at least half-right.

Kepler blinks. “I… did not… expect that.”

Alana ignores him, eyes frantically searching around for whoever had thrown that. It can’t have been Rachel, could it?

There is a loud, low whistle. “Damn, Renée, remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Alana knows that voice. Isabel Lovelace. What is she doing here? The situation is still very dangerous but decidedly less likely to be lethal with her presence. At least, for Alana.

“I always remind you of that but it seems to be more effective when I’m holding a harpoon,” Renée Minkowski says, equal parts amused and triumphant and stunned. She steps into view and roughly yanks her harpoon out of what must surely be Cutter’s corpse by now.

Lovelace trails after her and makes a show of accidentally kicking Cutter’s body. Then she does it six more times. “Maybe you were right about you bureau types having more fun.”

“Well I’ve never had occasion to use a harpoon before but you should see what I did with a tube of toothpaste and a saxophone once,” Minkowski says coyly.

Lovelace makes a face. “Okay, anyone else and I call bull, but I think you may have actually done it.”

“It’s strictly classified, of course.”

Lovelace laughs. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll think about the bureau’s offer.”

Minkowski turns to look at Kepler. “Warren Kepler, you’re under arrest. The Mirandizing can wait because this is hardly the appropriate place to question you and I am riding way too high on finally taking down Cutter to want to hear another bullshit story about how you broke the curse on the Cubs.”

Kepler stares at her. “Did you really… come all this way… literally harpoon the most notorious serial killer the world has ever known… just to arrest me?”

Without missing a beat, Minkowski replies, “Yes.”

“Hell yeah she did,” Lovelace says proudly. “Woman’s a goddamn professional.”

“I have no intention of going back to prison,” Kepler tells her.

“Tough,” Minkowski says unsympathetically.

“And seeing as how it looked like your ‘intention’ was to be murdered by this waste of oxygen, I’d really say that this is a clear improvement,” Lovelace adds. “Oh, and since you murdered at least 37 people I don’t really give a fuck what you want.”

Kepler looks around slowly, carefully. Alana can practically see the wheels turning in his head. He is unarmed. Cutter has seen to that. He can try to run or put up a fight in the vain hope it would inspire them to cut him down but it is far from the glorious death he has always hoped for and neither of them appear to have any inclination to kill him.

“Fine,” he bites out, his tone far from defeated. He’ll find another way, she knows he will.

Lovelace moves forward to secure Kepler’s wrists and said, “You’re sharing the squad car with Rachel Young. Friend of yours?” Kepler groans as Alana watches them leave, and then Minkowski turns to her for the first time.

“Maxwell,” she begins.

Alana holds up a hand, suddenly feeling all the rage and heartache and desperation drain out of her all at once. She feels like she could finally breathe again for the first time since Daniel had come to her all those months ago, a new spring in his step and dried blood on his cheek, saying ‘So I met this guy at this bar.’

“If you’re going to tell me you’re not angry, just disappointed then save it,” she says. “I know. I know. But I had to. And I don’t even care.”

Minkowski sighs. “I can’t say that I completely understand. But then, I can’t say I can’t see where you’re coming from at all, either. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“Thank you,” Alana says. “For the harpoon. I may have gotten in a little over my head there.”

Minkowski smiles despite herself. “May have?”

Alana shrugs. “Well, you never know. I might have had my own harpoon stashed somewhere around here and was waiting until Cutter got distracted by his own brilliance to make a break for it.”

“In that case, I’m sorry to deprive you of your moment,” Minkowski says. “But it really is better to let us take care of this kind of thing.”

“You’re not going to let me see him again, are you?”

“No. You’re not even going to be allowed to go to the same facility as him. I can’t take that risk. Not again,” Minkowski says. “I thought visiting him would help. I thought I could trust you not to do anything stupid.”

Alana lets the words hit her. “Half right’s not bad. It did help me. And there is nothing more he can do for me. I know what happened and I’ve laid him to rest.”

“I’m not usually so wrong about people,” Minkowski says slowly. “I hope I wasn’t entirely wrong about you. Would you even want to see Kepler again? After all this? Whatever strange bond the two of you developed, he murdered so many people. You know that better than anyone.”

“I don’t know,” Alana admits. “Honestly, I didn’t expect to survive tonight. I don’t know what I want to do. I’ve been so focused on keeping Daniel safe and then finding him and then losing him and trying to— I don’t know, fix some small part of it that I never really thought about what I’d do once it’s over. But I guess I’ve got a lot of time to think about that and some pretty limited options.”

“How so?”

“Well, while I can’t imagine I’ll get anything near Kepler’s sentence, my own actions can’t go unpunished. I let Kepler out. He could have killed so many innocent people and never been caught again. He didn’t but he could have. And none of the things I did to get him out were particularly legal, either.”

“We were all so worried when we realized that Kepler had taken you hostage,” Minkowski says abruptly. “It made a twisted sort of sense. First Daniel Jacobi, then the girl he left behind, the one who never stopped hounding him for the truth. I’m just glad we were able to get to you in time.”

Whatever Alana has been expecting, it certainly isn’t that. “Agent Minkowski?”

“Take some time,” she advises. “You’re going to need it. I don’t even know how you’re still standing. And talk to someone. Someone qualified. I know you haven’t and I think that explains a lot of the rather uncharacteristic and reckless choices you’ve made recently. And then give me a call. Isabel Lovelace isn’t the only one the bureau has had their eye on, you know.”

Alana blinks. The FBI? She certainly has the skills and everyone knows that those with true value are forgiven for almost anything. But still. This feels too easy. “After everything?”

“It’ll take you awhile to get in the right headspace to be an agent,” Minkowski concedes. “But I’ve never seen the kind of hacking you needed to pull this off and this sort of refusal to let anything stand in your way determination to pull off the impossible is something that will take you far. You’re a good person, Maxwell, and you’re a hell of a recruit. Just think it over. Don’t let this destroy you. This was bad, yes, but it could have been much worse.”

There are so many things she wants to say but words fail her.

“I’m not Daniel,” she says finally.

Minkowski nods like she understands everything Alana isn’t saying. “Come on. Let’s get you some rest.”

\---

_Then_

Their phones were from the supermarket and couldn’t make video calls, but somehow, Daniel remembered Alana’s phone number. Warren was somewhere around the corner, parking the car. It was cooler than he expected, and his sweatshirt was still somewhere in the back seat. He hoped Warren saw it. Daniel listened as the phone rang, once, twice, three times. And then it went to voicemail.

Daniel rubbed his arms, and bounced up on his toes.

“Hi Alana. Um.” He laughed as Warren stepped into view, sweatshirt draped over the duffle bag. “Well I was an idiot. But we knew that.” He cleared his throat. “Look, Alana. It’s not. It’s really good. I promise you, it was really good. So. Thank you, for everything.” He hung up then, and looked down the phone, almost expecting it to start vibrating.

Warren put a hand on his shoulder and stroked his thumb across the back of his neck

“We still have time,” he said and Daniel shook his head, shook Warren’s hand off to pull him into a soft kiss.

“I’m ready,” he said.


End file.
